The week moved slowly, but he stayed the same.
Each day, Ren Jiayun sat by the window in our classroom, half-listening to lectures, half-lost in his own world. His presence was constant but unfocused—as if school was just a place he came to out of habit, not desire. Teachers tolerated him, knowing better than to push too hard. Students followed him, quietly attentive, like he was the anchor of the class, the one whose opinions mattered without a word shouted. And there I was, watching from my seat, as if he were a painting I couldn't stop staring at—beautiful, distant, meant to be admired but untouched, unreachable.
By Friday, I had learned his rhythm. He arrived just minutes before the bell, carrying only a single notebook and a worn pen. His fingers tapped quietly on the desk whenever boredom struck, and the handwriting in his notes was messy, hurried, barely legible—as if he didn't care whether anyone could read it. He spoke only when he wanted, and when he did, people couldn't help but listen. His voice wasn't loud or commanding, but it carried weight, effortless, like he owned his quietness and wore it as a second skin that drew attention naturally.
He hadn't looked at me—not once—since that first day.
It didn't surprise me. Why would he notice someone like me?
I was the girl who wore her uniform neatly, braids tight, shoes polished, notebooks color-coded. I sat quietly, took notes, answered questions when called on, and disappeared when I wasn't needed. I passed like a shadow—quiet, unremarkable, unnoticed.
Yet fate, as it often does, had other plans.
It started with the rain.
The morning had been clear, the sky a perfect blue. But by the last bell, the horizon darkened, and thick, heavy clouds swallowed the sun. Suddenly, fat raindrops began hammering the school grounds.
Students rushed toward the exits in a chaotic flood, umbrellas blooming like colorful flowers. I didn't have one—I hadn't brought one. In the rush of moving to a new city just two weeks ago, an umbrella had been one more thing to forget.
I stood stiff beneath the edge of the building's roof, clutching my bag tightly to my chest, waiting and hoping the rain would ease. The classroom was empty, teachers gone. Only a few juniors—a rambunctious cluster of younger students—ran past, laughing and shrieking as they splashed through puddles like it was a game. I sighed and tilted my face up to the gray, bruised sky. It wasn't going to stop anytime soon.
"Hey."
The voice came softly from behind me—low, casual—but sharp enough to make my heart skip a beat.
I turned slowly, unsure if I had really heard him or imagined it.
There he was. Just a few feet away, holding a dark blue umbrella in one hand, phone in the other. His school shirt clung damply to his shoulders, hair plastered down on his forehead, strands sticking together, making him look careless and real.
He didn't look at me as he spoke again. "You're in Class 10-B, right?"
I nodded, stunned, unsure how to form words that wouldn't betray my sudden nervousness.
He glanced up and tilted his head slightly. "You forgot your umbrella?"
My lips twitched in a small, embarrassed smile. "Yeah. I guess I did."
He stared a moment longer, then, without hesitation, held out the umbrella just enough for me to fit beneath it. "I'm heading to the main gate. If you're going the same way, come on."
My brain rebelled for a moment—he was actually offering to walk with me. Under the same umbrella.
I swallowed hard but stepped forward, the edge brushing my shoulder. The space between us was small—closer than I'd ever been.
We walked in silence.
The sound of water hitting the pavement filled the air—the rhythmic splatter of raindrops into puddles, the occasional plop as shoes squished wetly. My heart drummed in my chest, loud enough that I was sure he must hear it. But I couldn't stop it. I focused on walking steadily, careful not to slip or feel like I was invading his space, unsure how close was too close.
After a moment, he spoke.
"You're always writing in class. Even when no one else is."
I blinked. "I like to be prepared," I said, voice a bit shaky.
He chuckled softly. "Prepared for what? An exam that hasn't even been announced yet?"
There was no mockery in his tone. Just curiosity. That made me relax a little.
"I guess I just like to understand things. If I don't write it down, I forget," I said, hoping I didn't sound defensive.
He looked at me from the corner of his eye. "Interesting."
The conversation paused again, but the silence didn't feel heavy or awkward. He seemed fine with it. I, however, was internally panicking—trying to remember how to breathe normally, walk properly, and not say anything embarrassing.
As we moved closer to the school gate, he asked, "Do you always eat lunch alone?"
I froze for half a second, then quietly answered, "Sometimes."
He nodded slowly, not pressing further. Then a faint, almost teasing smirk curved his lips. "It's not a bad spot, under that tree. I usually sit near there during basketball practice."
I wasn't sure what surprised me more—the fact that he noticed where I sat, or that he actually cared enough to mention it.
We reached the main road. Cars passed by, splashing water onto the curb. He stopped, pulled out his phone again, and glanced at the screen.
"You live nearby?" he asked, without looking up.
"About fifteen minutes away," I said.
He considered it for a moment. "Good. I was worried you'd say somewhere far."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"
He shrugged casually. "Would've complicated this umbrella thing."
My breath caught. Was he… planning to walk me home?
Before I could ask, he handed me the umbrella.
"Keep it," he said, as if it was no big deal.
I stared at him, confused. "But… what about you?"
He looked up at the sky, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I like the rain."
And then, without waiting for a response, he turned and jogged across the street, rain soaking through his shirt as he disappeared around the corner.
I stood there for a long moment, clutching the umbrella tight. It was still warm, as if his touch lingered.
It was a short conversation.
No grand gestures. No fireworks.
But to me, it meant everything.
That was the first time he spoke to me.
The first time, in all those days, that his voice was meant for me.
And somehow, with just a few words and a borrowed umbrella, he became more than a name I had memorized.
He became real.
Too real.