Monday arrived and Jiang Yue walked to school beside Wei.
Not ahead of him. Not behind him.
Beside him.
Half a step apart, the same distance as before, but the quality of it had changed. Before, the gap had been avoidance. Now it was choice—a deliberate space that said we know what this is and we're choosing to be here anyway.
They didn't talk on the walk. They didn't need to.
The cold air bit at their faces. Students streamed past them in groups, loud with Monday complaints. The school gate loomed ahead, gray and institutional.
At the entrance, Wei slowed slightly.
Jiang Yue matched his pace without thinking.
They walked through the gate together, and Jiang Yue noticed something: the whispers hadn't stopped, but they'd dimmed. The photo from last week had been replaced by fresher gossip—someone in Class 3 had been caught cheating, a couple in the senior year had broken up publicly—and the news cycle had moved on.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that Jiang Yue could breathe.
In class, he sat behind Wei as usual.
Teacher Gao lectured. Students scribbled. The fluorescent lights hummed.
Normal.
Except that midway through the period, something fell from Wei's desk.
A notebook.
Not his textbook. Not his planner.
A smaller notebook, dark cover, no label. It slid off the edge of Wei's desk and landed on the floor between their chairs with a soft thud.
Wei didn't notice.
He was writing, focused, head slightly bowed.
Jiang Yue looked at the notebook on the floor.
He should pick it up and hand it back.
That was the obvious thing. The polite thing. The thing a stepbrother would do.
Instead, his hand moved on its own.
He picked it up.
And opened it.
Not on purpose. Not with intent. His thumb just found the edge and the pages fell open to somewhere in the middle, and before his brain could stop his eyes, he was reading.
Wei's handwriting. Neat, small, precise.
But not notes.
Not formulas.
Something else.
The page was dated three weeks ago.
The entry was short.
He sat behind me today and I could hear him breathing. I corrected his math and he called me insane. His handwriting is terrible. His logic is wrong half the time. He tries harder than he thinks he does. I don't know why I notice these things. I don't know why I can't stop.
Jiang Yue's heart stopped.
His eyes moved down the page.
Another entry. A week later.
He was sick. I stayed. His forehead was burning. When I touched him, he didn't push me away. I stayed too long. I know I stayed too long. I don't regret it.
Jiang Yue's hands trembled.
Another entry. Shorter.
He smiled at me today. Not the sharp one. The real one. The one that makes his eyes smaller and his face softer. I looked away because if I didn't, I would've said something I can't take back.
Jiang Yue's vision blurred.
He flipped forward.
The hallway. 2 a.m. He was sitting against the wall and he looked at me like I was the only real thing in the world. I wanted to touch his face. I didn't. I think that's the bravest thing I've ever done. I also think it's the stupidest.
Jiang Yue closed the notebook.
His hands were shaking.
His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat, his fingers, the backs of his eyes.
He stared at the dark cover in his lap.
This was Wei's private notebook.
Wei's actual thoughts. Unfiltered. Uncontrolled. The person behind the wall, written in neat handwriting that somehow made the rawness worse.
Jiang Yue had no right to read it.
And he'd read it anyway.
He felt sick.
Not because of what was written.
Because of how much it matched what he felt.
Because Wei Nianzhan—controlled, careful, untouchable Wei Nianzhan—had been writing about him the way Jiang Yue thought about Wei.
With obsession disguised as observation.
With want disguised as logic.
With love disguised as—
Jiang Yue shut that thought down so hard his jaw cracked.
He slid the notebook under his own textbook, heart hammering.
He needed to give it back.
He needed to give it back without Wei knowing he'd read it.
He needed to act normal.
He needed to breathe.
He managed approximately none of these things.
When the bell rang for break, students stood and shuffled.
Wei turned around.
His gaze landed on Jiang Yue's face and paused.
"You look pale," Wei said.
Jiang Yue forced a smile. "I'm always pale."
Wei's eyes narrowed slightly, reading him the way he always did—too carefully, too thoroughly.
Jiang Yue held up the notebook, keeping his expression neutral. "This fell."
Wei looked at it.
For one second—one terrible, exposed second—Wei's eyes widened.
Then his expression sealed shut, fast and complete, like a door slamming.
He took the notebook from Jiang Yue's hand.
Their fingers brushed.
Jiang Yue felt the touch like electricity.
Wei's voice was controlled. "Thank you."
Jiang Yue nodded, not trusting his own voice.
Wei turned away, slipping the notebook into his bag with a movement that was too fast, too deliberate.
He knew.
Maybe not that Jiang Yue had read it. But he knew the notebook had been exposed. He knew it had been in Jiang Yue's hands. And that alone was enough to make Wei's shoulders tighten in a way that didn't relax for the rest of the morning.
Jiang Yue sat through the next two periods in a haze.
He couldn't focus.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wei's handwriting.
He tries harder than he thinks he does.
I don't regret it.
The one that makes his eyes smaller and his face softer.
I think that's the bravest thing I've ever done.
Each line was a shard of glass, beautiful and cutting.
At lunch, Jiang Yue sat with Xu Zhe and barely ate.
Xu Zhe watched him push food around his tray. "You're doing the thing again."
Jiang Yue blinked. "What thing."
Xu Zhe gestured at Jiang Yue's entire body. "The 'I'm experiencing an internal crisis but I'd rather die than talk about it' thing."
Jiang Yue stabbed a piece of tofu. "I'm fine."
Xu Zhe sighed. "You know that word has never once been true coming from you."
Jiang Yue didn't respond.
Xu Zhe leaned closer, voice dropping. "Did something happen with Wei."
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "No."
Xu Zhe stared at him.
Jiang Yue stared at his tofu.
Xu Zhe leaned back. "Okay. But when you're ready to not be fine, I'm here."
Jiang Yue's throat tightened. "I know."
After school, they walked home.
Side by side. Half a step apart.
The silence was heavier than this morning.
Not angry. Not cold.
Just full.
Full of a notebook Jiang Yue shouldn't have read and words he couldn't forget.
At the apartment, they took off their shoes. Wei went to his room. Jiang Yue went to his.
Doors open.
The arrangement held.
At seven, they met at the dining table.
Wei had his textbook out. Jiang Yue had his.
They studied.
Wei pointed at errors. Jiang Yue corrected them. The rhythm returned, familiar and steady.
But Jiang Yue couldn't stop looking at Wei's hands.
The hands that had written those words.
The hands that had touched his forehead during the fever.
The hands that had carried him—mostly—back to bed at 2 a.m.
At one point, Wei looked up and caught Jiang Yue staring.
Their eyes met.
Jiang Yue's face warmed.
Wei's expression stayed calm, but something flickered underneath. A question.
Do you know?
Jiang Yue held his gaze.
He didn't nod. Didn't speak. Didn't confess.
But he let his expression soften—just slightly, just enough.
I know.
Wei's throat moved in a swallow.
His gaze dropped back to the textbook.
His pen didn't move for three full seconds.
Then it started again, controlled, steady.
And they continued.
Studying.
Side by side.
With a notebook full of confessions sitting in Wei's bag like a live grenade, and the knowledge of its contents sitting in Jiang Yue's chest like a second heartbeat.
That night, after their parents went to bed, Jiang Yue lay awake.
Not from pain this time.
From fullness.
Because knowing someone wrote about you—not your mistakes, not your failures, but the way you smile and the way you try and the way you breathe—changed something fundamental.
It didn't make the situation less impossible.
It didn't fix the walls or the parents or the school.
But it made Jiang Yue feel, for the first time in his life, like he was worth noticing.
Not as a problem.
Not as a performance.
As a person.
And somewhere across the hallway, Wei Nianzhan lay in his own bed, staring at his own ceiling, wondering if Jiang Yue had read the notebook, and knowing—with the quiet certainty of someone who noticed everything—that the answer was yes.
And that tomorrow, they would sit at the same table and pretend otherwise.
Because that was the deal.
Honest at home.
Careful everywhere else.
And the notebook would stay closed.
But the words inside it would stay open, written in ink that couldn't be erased, in handwriting that said everything Wei's mouth refused to.