Midterms arrived the way disasters always did in Yunbei No. 1: announced well in advance, prepared for obsessively, and still somehow feeling like a surprise attack.
The school transformed overnight.
Hallways that usually buzzed with gossip went quiet, replaced by the rustle of flashcards and the hollow look of students who hadn't slept. The library filled before 7 a.m. Teachers walked faster. Even the cafeteria food seemed sadder, as if the kitchen staff had decided suffering should be consistent.
Jiang Yue felt the pressure like a hand on his chest.
Not because he cared about exams.
Because everyone else cared, and their caring created a gravity he couldn't escape.
Teacher Gao had made it personal. She'd pulled him aside Monday morning—not publicly, not cruelly, just efficiently—and said, "If you don't move up at least ten places, we'll need to have a serious conversation about your future."
Jiang Yue had smiled. "I love serious conversations."
Teacher Gao hadn't smiled back. "I'm not joking, Jiang Yue."
He knew.
That was the problem.
Ten places meant climbing from forty-eight to at least thirty-eight.
It sounded possible on paper.
On paper, a lot of things sounded possible. World peace. Time travel. Not thinking about Wei Nianzhan every time the apartment went quiet.
At the dining table that evening, the study sessions continued.
Door open.
No touching.
Wei explaining formulas with the patience of someone defusing a bomb.
Jiang Yue absorbing them with the reluctance of someone who'd been told the bomb was also homework.
They'd fallen into a rhythm over the past few days—tense but functional, like a machine held together by tape and mutual stubbornness.
Wei would point at a problem. Jiang Yue would attempt it. Wei would correct it without judgment. Jiang Yue would grumble but redo it.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
It was almost bearable.
Except for the moments when it wasn't.
Like when Wei leaned forward to write something and Jiang Yue caught the scent of his shampoo and his brain short-circuited.
Like when their knees accidentally touched under the table and both of them pretended it hadn't happened while their bodies remembered everything.
Like when Wei said "good" after Jiang Yue got a problem right, and the single word sent a spike of warmth through Jiang Yue's chest that had no business being there.
Tuesday night, Jiang Yue was staring at a history timeline that looked like it had been designed to punish him specifically.
"I can't memorize this," he said flatly.
Wei glanced at the page. "You can."
Jiang Yue gestured at the wall of dates and names. "There are forty events."
Wei's voice was calm. "Group them."
Jiang Yue stared at him. "Group them how. By how much I hate them?"
Wei's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just a twitch.
Jiang Yue noticed anyway, and it annoyed him that noticing made his chest feel warm.
Wei pulled the page closer and drew lines between events, connecting them into clusters. His handwriting was neat, his logic clean.
"Think of it as a story," Wei said.
Jiang Yue blinked. "A story."
Wei nodded. "Cause and effect. This event caused this one. This one happened because of that."
Jiang Yue looked at the clusters. They did look less terrifying arranged like that.
He scoffed. "So history is just gossip with dates."
Wei glanced at him. "Essentially."
Jiang Yue almost smiled.
They worked for another hour. By the end, Jiang Yue could recite fifteen of the forty events from memory.
Not perfect.
But not forty-eight either.
Wednesday was worse.
The school released a "pre-midterm practice ranking" based on the latest mock quiz, and Teacher Gao posted it on the classroom wall like a public execution.
Jiang Yue didn't want to look.
He looked anyway.
Wei Nianzhan: Rank 1.
Obvious. Boring. Infuriating.
Jiang Yue scanned down.
His finger stopped.
Jiang Yue: Rank 41.
He blinked.
Forty-one.
He'd moved seven places.
Not ten. Not the miracle Teacher Gao demanded.
But seven.
Seven places of proof that he wasn't broken.
His throat tightened.
Behind him, Xu Zhe appeared, reading over his shoulder. "Forty-one! Bro!"
Jiang Yue swallowed. "It's not enough."
Xu Zhe stared at him. "You moved seven spots in two weeks. That's insane."
Jiang Yue shook his head. "Teacher Gao said ten."
Xu Zhe's expression hardened. "Teacher Gao can—"
"Don't," Jiang Yue said quietly.
Xu Zhe went quiet.
Jiang Yue stared at the number.
Forty-one.
Three more places.
Three more places and Teacher Gao would have nothing to say.
Three more places and Jiang Yue could prove he wasn't just noise.
He turned away from the board and nearly walked into Wei.
Wei stood behind him, gaze already on the ranking list.
Their eyes met.
Wei's expression was calm, but his gaze flicked to the number beside Jiang Yue's name, then back to Jiang Yue's face.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
His eyes said it: keep going.
Jiang Yue's chest tightened. He forced his voice casual. "Don't look so proud. You'll strain something."
Wei's mouth almost moved. Almost.
Then he turned and walked away.
Xu Zhe leaned toward Jiang Yue. "Was that a compliment? I can't tell. You two communicate in code."
Jiang Yue shoved him lightly. "Shut up."
That night, the study session was longer.
Their parents were both home, which meant the performance was on: Wei Chengyu reading in the living room, their mother washing fruit, the apartment pretending to be a sitcom.
Jiang Yue and Wei sat at the table, textbooks open.
Wei was going through English vocabulary when Wei Chengyu spoke from the sofa.
"Nianzhan."
Wei looked up. "Yes."
Wei Chengyu set his reading down. "Your uncle called. He wants you to apply for that summer program in Beijing."
Wei's expression stayed calm, but something shifted in his posture—a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.
"I know," Wei said.
Wei Chengyu continued, tone expectant. "It's competitive. You should prepare your materials early."
Wei nodded. "I will."
Jiang Yue watched the exchange, feeling like a spectator in someone else's life.
Summer program. Beijing. Competitive.
Of course.
Wei's future was a highway, straight and planned and leading somewhere impressive.
Jiang Yue's future was a dirt road that might have a cliff at the end.
His mother added, gentle, "That sounds wonderful, Nianzhan."
Wei nodded politely. "Thank you."
Jiang Yue stared at his vocabulary list.
Nobody asked about his summer.
Nobody mentioned his future.
The silence around his name was louder than any insult.
He told himself it didn't matter.
He told himself he didn't care.
He told himself ranking forty-one was fine, seven places was fine, being invisible was fine.
Then his pen snapped in his hand.
The crack was small but sharp.
Ink leaked onto his paper.
Wei looked at him.
Jiang Yue stared at the broken pen, at the spreading ink stain, at the ruined page.
His throat tightened.
Wei reached across the table quietly and placed a new pen beside Jiang Yue's hand.
No words.
No look.
Just a pen.
Jiang Yue stared at it.
His eyes burned.
He picked it up and continued writing without acknowledging it, because acknowledging it would mean admitting that the smallest acts of care from Wei Nianzhan could undo him faster than any insult.
After their parents went to bed, Jiang Yue stayed at the table.
Wei was packing up when Jiang Yue spoke.
"Beijing," Jiang Yue said, voice flat.
Wei paused. "What about it."
Jiang Yue didn't look up. "You're leaving."
Wei's gaze landed on him. "It's a summer program. Not permanent."
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "But you want to go."
Wei was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, carefully, "My father wants me to go."
Jiang Yue looked up. "That's not what I asked."
Wei's eyes held his.
For a second, the wall thinned.
Then Wei said, voice low, "I don't know what I want."
The honesty hit Jiang Yue like a wave.
Because it echoed.
Because Jiang Yue didn't know what he wanted either—except that the thought of Wei leaving, even for a summer, made his chest feel like it was caving in.
He forced a smirk. "Careful. That sounded human."
Wei's jaw tightened. "Goodnight."
He walked toward his room.
Jiang Yue called after him, voice rough. "Wei."
Wei stopped but didn't turn.
Jiang Yue stared at his back.
He wanted to say: Don't go.
He wanted to say: Stay.
He wanted to say: I moved seven places because of you.
Instead, he said, "I need your help with the last three questions tomorrow."
Wei's shoulders loosened slightly.
"Seven o'clock," Wei said.
Then he walked into his room and shut the door.
Jiang Yue sat alone at the table, staring at the pen Wei had given him.
He picked it up and turned it over in his fingers.
It was black. Simple. Nothing special.
But it was given without being asked.
And that, Jiang Yue was learning, was the most dangerous kind of kindness.
The kind you couldn't return.
The kind you couldn't forget.
The kind that made you want to be better, not for yourself, but for the person who handed you a pen when yours broke and didn't say a word.