The sky was a brilliant azure. Outside the window, no paper cranes fluttered.

Yet Gu Chuan suddenly recalled the old legend—fold a thousand paper cranes, and the sick shall heal.

But then another memory surfaced: a recent news report.

An earthquake had struck Japan. Across the nation, people folded countless paper cranes as prayers, shipping them to the disaster zone.

Naturally, the gestures changed nothing.

Worse, mountains of cranes hindered reconstruction—crate after crate of useless clutter, wasting precious manpower on storage and disposal.

Gu Chuan’s hand, poised to tear a page from his exercise book, stilled.

Well, I’ll be… So you really *were* planning to fold one?

Still, with time to kill—Gu Chuan rarely paid attention in class—folding cranes felt oddly more meaningful than daydreaming.

His fingers sprang back to work. He tore a sheet, folded one corner precisely to form a perfect isosceles right triangle.

Trimmed the excess strip. A clean square remained.

Then, with practiced care, he shaped it into a crane. Done.

So absorbed was he that he didn’t notice someone sit beside him.

Partially hidden by stacked books, his focused profile looked serene.

Wen Tinghan, the gentle youth who’d just arrived, froze mid-motion. He eased his bag into the desk with deliberate quietness. A faint smile touched his lips—pale, yet undeniably healthier.

Finally, Gu Chuan finished his creation: a paper crane folded with total concentration.

A familiar, warm voice whispered beside his ear.

“Gu Chuan… What a beautiful paper crane.”

His heartbeat skipped.

He turned, stunned, to see Wen Tinghan—soft-spoken, blushing.

Flustered, Wen Tinghan scratched his flushed cheek and glanced away.

“Is… something on my face?”

“N-no! I mean—your illness? You’re better?”

“Mm… Much better.”

Wen Tinghan’s eyes held the clarity of a spring sky. His delicate brows carried quiet grace even at rest.

His boys’ uniform hung loosely, hinting at a slender waist. Hair brushed his ears, nearly grazing his shoulders, framing androgynous features with quiet elegance.

Around his neck, the jet-black ribbon remained—concealing what lay beneath.

Gu Chuan had once asked why he wore it. Wen Tinghan, flustered, mumbled, “To cover a scar.”

As a hard-won friend, Gu Chuan never pressed further.

Yet as he watched Wen Tinghan now, the blush deepened.

“I’m glad,” Gu Chuan murmured, voice soft as wind stirring summer leaves.

“Here.” Without hesitation, he placed the freshly folded crane—lifelike, faintly scented with ink—into Wen Tinghan’s waiting palms.

Wen Tinghan stared at it, silent. His expression softened, eyes growing tender. Only when he finally looked up to thank Gu Chuan did he realize Gu Chuan had been watching him all along. Flustered, he ducked his head. Silky strands veiled half his face, leaving only the elegant bridge of his nose visible.

Without the boys’ uniform, nine out of ten would mistake him for a quiet girl.

Slightly dazed, Gu Chuan whispered, “Tinghan… if you were a girl, even I might want to chase you.”

“…”

“Ah—sorry! Forget I said that.”

Only after speaking did Gu Chuan snap back, cheeks warming. He hastily looked away, flipping his textbook while muttering apologies.

Then—a whisper, trembling, faint as gardenia scent on air:

“…Really?”

Gu Chuan’s fingers faltered on the page.

…

After a long pause, he glanced sideways.

Wen Tinghan was already focused on the lesson. Gu Chuan turned back.

Just a little curious. That was all.

Time to nap. Wen Tinghan was the kind of deskmate who wouldn’t disturb him.

Gu Chuan buried his face in his arms. Xuechun’s smiling face flashed in his mind—then game screens.

Only then did Wen Tinghan dare to look freely at him.

Pearl-white teeth gently bit his pen cap. Restraint etched his fair features.

*When… when will it be time…?*

His brows twitched in quiet pain. Pale fingers rose, brushing the ribbon-hidden hollow of his throat.

A spring breeze drifted through the window.

Someone’s heart drifted too—adrift like a dandelion seed.

His illness had improved.

Yet in another way, it had quietly worsened.

…

Teachers today found students like Gu Chuan a dilemma: intervene and invite trouble, or let go and watch him drift. Most chose the latter.

Students weren’t like before. Teachers weren’t either.

Gu Chuan’s class wasn’t officially a “key class”—though rumors swirled. The real reshuffle would come in senior year: top students funneled into elite tracks for a “survival of the fittest” grind ahead of the college entrance exam.

Students like Gu Chuan? Likely relegated to ordinary streams.

Unless he woke up and fought back.

But seeing his lazy posture… hope felt thin.

Still—Gu Chuan hadn’t always been this way. His middle school grades were solid enough to earn him a spot at this city’s key high school.

Enough to become Ji Gewei’s schoolmate.