Just like other key high schools,

our school also divided classes into elite track, accelerated track, and standard track.

Right after freshman year began, following the school’s entrance exam,

all new students were sorted into six classes—A through F—

based on our scores.

Each class held forty to fifty students,

taught by homeroom teachers with rich experience.

Classes A and B—the elite track—were led by the head and deputy head of our grade.

Classes C and D—the accelerated track—were taught by senior subject leaders.

Only standard track classes E and F got ordinary but excellent teachers.

The school claimed all classes received identical resources,

treating every student equally.

But the truth?

Not only were teaching staff different—

even major exam papers varied.

Higher-tier classes got harder tests,

yet when calculating school-wide rankings,

elite and accelerated track scores were reduced by a set percentage

to "compete fairly" with standard track.

It was like they fought us with one hand tied behind their backs.

But the outcome never changed.

Even after deducting those trivial bonus points,

their scores still towered over ours.

Jiang Muqing naturally landed in Class A.

I ended up in Class F—the very bottom.

Outsiders heavily criticized this system,

arguing all kids deserved equal classrooms

to ensure educational fairness.

Local media slammed our school’s methods.

Our principal silenced them with one sentence:

*"Why sell jade alongside common stones?"*

He had a point.

Forcing lower-tier students into advanced classes

would only leave them struggling to keep up.

Rumors said the pressure there was crushing—

everyone obsessed with scores,

watching their backs against those below them,

straining to surpass those above.

Living in that tension daily…

Take Guo Tong, for example.

That easygoing optimist?

He’d never survive there.

If he studied seriously,

he’d eventually transfer to Class A.

But he refused.

He couldn’t stand that suffocating atmosphere.

Sleeping in class?

In Class A, that’d make you a freak—

an outcast.

Of course, not everyone felt that way.

Take me…

For others, it might be hell.

For me—a struggler—it was heaven.

The city’s college entrance exam graders

always came from those top classes.

They knew exactly what earned high scores.

If entering a key high school meant one foot in college,

entering an elite class meant the other foot

was already on the university threshold.

…

Heaven for learners.

Class A.

A place I dreamed of.

Now, I stood by their classroom’s back door,

watching inside.

*I just need to see Jiang Muqing’s seat.

Just need to confirm she’s safe.

Then I can finally breathe.*

But no matter where I looked—

Jiang Muqing was gone.

Instead, the front-row seat beneath the teacher’s desk sat empty.

A bad feeling coiled in my gut.

Morning reading hour should’ve been in full swing.

Yet unlike the neighboring classroom’s chorus of voices,

Class A sat utterly silent.

No textbooks open.

Boys stared blankly at the empty blackboard

or kept their heads down.

Girls buried faces in their arms,

some shoulders shaking with soft sobs.

The air felt wrong.

Then our grade coordinator—also Class A’s homeroom teacher—

strode to the podium, face grim.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke,

his deep voice thickening the heavy silence:

*"Though Jiang Muqing spent little time with us,

sharing this classroom was fate.

She was our classmate.

Part of our Class A family.

Our forever family…"*

*"...She passed away yesterday morning.

The school has consoled her family.

I know you’d all grown close to her quickly.

But the departed are gone.

The living must carry on.

Don’t grieve too deeply…"*

*"I trust you’ll always cherish the days you shared with her."*

Finally, he relaxed his furrowed brow slightly.

*"Alright. Textbooks out. Page 134.

Last class, we covered—"*

*Rustle-rustle…*

Pages turned.

Students straightened,

flipping to the right page,

opening notebooks,

pens poised.

Every eye locked on the teacher.

No one glanced at Jiang Muqing’s empty seat.

Life moved on.

As if that seat had always been vacant.

As if Jiang Muqing had never existed.

Their lives had severed from hers—

the break welded shut by the coordinator’s words.

Seamless. Not a trace left.

*"We’ll never forget her,"* they’d said.

But I knew—

Jiang Muqing’s name would never cross their lips again.

How could it?

No one could ever connect with her again…

Classmates. Teachers. Friends… Lovers?

Is human connection really this fragile?

Yes. That’s the truth.

Each person is just a grain of sand in the ocean.

No one cares if you’re washed onto sunlit shores

or dragged into endless abyssal darkness.

If only grains could bind together…

Maybe fate would change.

Like glass—same molecules as sand,

but holding hands,

they cling to windows,

basking in sunlight together.

If only they’d shown unstable Jiang Muqing more warmth…

Would she still be alive?

These cold-hearted people…

Though… I’m no better.

*"Liar… I’d already given up on this world…"*

Her trembling voice echoed in my skull—

her tearful plea,

her shaking head.

Back then, she’d reached for a lifeline.

And I’d blocked it with my ignorance.

*God. Why didn’t I just shut up and hold her?*

*All she needed was one embrace.*

*"What have I done?!"*

I slammed my fist against the wall,

regret tearing through me.

*I’m the real culprit…*

*Ding-ding-ding—*

The bell rang—end of morning reading, start of first period.

My body went limp.

Leaning against the classroom door,

I tried to step forward—

but collapsed onto the floor.

I struggled to rise.

My limbs refused to obey.

…

Another perfectly ordinary morning.

Outside my apartment window,

birds chirped in the park,

hunting dew-kissed worms for their chicks.

My head throbbed.

*Is the blanket too thick?*

I was sweating like I’d melt…

*Did I forget to turn on the AC?*

Ugh…

I forced my eyes open.

My own ceiling.

My own room.

Dark. Quiet.

My limbs felt stiff as stone.

It took ages to sit up.

Cold sweat soaked my shirt.

I wiggled my fingers and toes—

slowly, feeling returned.

*"Sleep paralysis?"*

I gasped for air.

How long had I slept?

The clock read 5 a.m.—hours before class.

Sleep? Impossible now.

I showered in icy water,

scrubbing away the stench of sweat.

In the kitchen,

I reheated leftovers,

ate bread with them,

left a bento for my still-sleeping mom,

and rushed out.

*Was it all a dream?*

*Why did it feel so real?*

Like it happened minutes ago.

Exhausted, I needed to confirm one thing—

…

*"Jiang Muqing… please be safe. Please!"*