"To be honest, I thought you two would end up fighting."

The setting sun filtered through the plane tree leaves, dappling light across the ground at their feet.

Beneath the teaching building—Lin Ruoxing’s first words to Lu Huai.

After finishing classroom cleanup, they’d walked downstairs together.

Lin Ruoxing halted, finally letting Lu Huai catch up. It was always like this: when she slowed, he slowed; when she quickened her pace, so did he.

Noticing the pattern, she simply stopped and spoke.

Lu Huai kept his gaze forward.

He replied with slight hesitation, "I... meddled where I shouldn’t have."

Those who meddle often get what they deserve.

Lu Huai barely remembered why he’d spoken then, or how he’d felt—only the faint tremor in his body, the tension thick in the air, words breaking past his mental barriers. Now? Nothing remained.

Hearing his reply, Lin Ruoxing paused. She glanced up at the towering teaching building behind them, then swept her eyes across the nearly empty campus.

"You doubt yourself constantly. A sign of low confidence, isn’t it?"

Though phrased as a question, her tone held certainty.

Lu Huai offered no rebuttal.

Lin Ruoxing continued, "Sensitive, fragile, insecure... you seem no different from most boys."

Truly, there was no difference. Even if Lu Huai had once hoped to stand out before such a girl, he’d abandoned the thought.

He sensed she enjoyed dissecting others’ minds—why else speak so long to someone as unremarkable as him?

"You’re right..." he conceded weakly.

But Lin Ruoxing smiled. Beneath her black-rimmed glasses, the expression held quiet charm, contrasting her usual detached calm—as if observing everyone with cool, analytical eyes.

Perhaps she cherished this "sober observer" role: watching silently while others rushed in, believing them foolish.

Lu Huai disliked that attitude—not from blind conformity, but because such detachment often masked arrogance... or deep insecurity.

"Hehe... Really? I didn’t expect you not to argue even this."

They walked on, steps uneven. Lu Huai avoided seeming like the guy who casually chats with a girl like her—though it might look impressive, he knew he was just a specimen under scrutiny. Every word would be analyzed.

Where did she get such interest?

"Uh... couldn’t think of a rebuttal."

"I see. But you overlooked one thing."

"What..."

"You *did* persuade Li Xin to apologize. I never imagined it possible—but you not only thought of it, you *did* it. That’s why, even though you seem utterly ordinary... I find you special."

Was she seeking uniqueness just to feel distinct?

Disappointment flickered in Lu Huai—but he had no right to feel it. He craved connection; her attention was kindness. Yet it wasn’t *him* she saw—only a psychological puzzle.

Just as expected: life shifted slightly, but the world remained unchanged for him.

Only when you look down on someone do you feel entitled to dissect them.

"He just wanted his phone back..." Lu Huai offered quietly.

Lin Ruoxing shook her head. As Lu Huai, lost in thought, nearly walked into a utility pole, she reached out and pulled him back.

His shoulder brushed her hand.

A faint blush tinged her cheeks. Lu Huai lowered his head.

Cars rumbled past, engines roaring, exhaust swirling.

The blush meant nothing. He offered no exaggerated apology.

Lin Ruoxing continued speaking as if nothing happened—that tug feeling almost like a role reversal: the quiet boy drawn gently into the composed girl’s space.

"Do you truly believe he apologized *only* for the phone? Maybe part of it... but he was moved by *you*. The way you spoke—with that sincerity—carried weight."

Lu Huai subtly widened the distance between them, seeking comfort.

"I have no such power..."

"You do. Didn’t you shout clearly then: *‘Wrong is wrong’*?"

Discomfort flooded him—like a sobering drunk forced to recall every foolish act.

Heat rose to his cheeks; his toes curled tight, digging an imaginary villa of embarrassment into the pavement.

"Th-this... let’s not... I wasn’t thinking anything..."

"Probably. But your case is different. Social anxiety, right?"

Lu Huai had never told classmates. He guarded this secret carefully—not wanting pitying glances.

Whenever issues arose: "Hey, he’s got social anxiety—cut him slack?"

Like elders saying, "He’s younger—just let him have the toy."

So... sentimental.

Yet *he*, sentimental himself, still winced at the word.

"Uh... you noticed."

"Not hard to guess. You linger on the edges—not with ‘sober observer’ pride, but real fear. That’s what I saw."

"I see..." Sharp. And that "sober observer" jab he’d silently aimed at her? Now reflected squarely back.

They reached the crossroads—their parting point. A humid summer breeze swept over stifling uniforms, lifting strands of her hair. She removed her black-rimmed glasses.

Her eyes focused squarely on him.

"Would you like my help to change?"

Her gaze felt utterly sincere.

"Uh... no need."

"It affects daily life, doesn’t it?"

"...Yes."

"And your future?"

"Haven’t thought about it."

"Too afraid?"

"...Probably."

"Then why refuse my help?"

"I... don’t want to trouble others."

"It wouldn’t be trouble."

She hesitated, tucking a wind-tousled strand behind her ear with the hand holding her glasses.

Tree shadows dappled the ground beside her feet.

She seemed to exist within a living illustration—elegant, serene.

Honestly, it wouldn’t be trouble. Almost an honor: a beautiful girl offering help. A scene straight from a youth novel.

But... he refused to be her lab rat.

To her, it might feel light—even meaningful. Failure? "I tried my best."

But for him? Only deeper alienation. What value did *he* hold?

"Thank you... but relying on others... rarely works."

Lin Ruoxing studied his face, searching for truth. Too easy to read—yet revealing nothing clear.

Cautious, yet full of tells.

She sensed it wasn’t genuine. But... she let it go.

"Alright. Heading home. Goodbye."

"Goodbye..."

*Be careful on your way.* The words lodged in his throat—a breath trapped between wanting to add more and fearing overanalysis.

The girl boarded her usual bus, returning to her familiar home.

Her gaze stayed calm, seemingly on the passing scenery, mind replaying their talk.

She pieced together what she’d sensed: the boy’s sensitivity, his rich inner world—too tangled for his words to capture.

Yet pressured by Li Xin, even a sliver emerged with quiet conviction.

Truly... that charming contrast.

She remembered her notebook.

Home. Bag dropped. No greeting to parents. Into her spacious, tidy room. From the drawer: a notebook. Desk lamp clicked on. Pages opened.

Her palm rested gently on her neck. She swept long hair aside, murmuring softly:

"No moment can be revisited. Scars cannot be undone.

I dislike keeping records... because it feels like I hold onto nothing."

Lines from *his* essay. As class monitor, Lin Ruoxing collected assignments, skimmed papers—privilege she’d used without guilt. She couldn’t recall when it began.

The first time she opened an essay by Lu Huai.

After that, she noticed the name. Again. And again.

Regardless of the teacher’s grade, she’d read it twice.

Jotting down striking lines became habit.

To this day, she remembered the passage that first caught her:

*"By the flowerbed on my way home, I saw a stray cat.

It sat quietly, tilting its head at every passerby who walked past unseen.

I turned back, bought milk and meat jerky.

It ate without fear.

I patted its head. It didn’t bite.

I said: ‘I’m going home. You should too. If you have no home... wander the world.’

Whether human life or cat’s life—both hold meaning."*

Lin Ruoxing closed the notebook.

No breathtaking moment.

But... special nonetheless.