Chapter Text
The morning sunlight spilled lazily across the classroom windows, pooling on worn desks and scattering patterns across the floor. Dust drifted in the golden shafts of light, glittering in the air like secret stars that only appeared when the day was quiet. The faint smell of chalk hung in the air, mixed with the sweetness of fresh bread someone had smuggled in their bag. The room was alive with chatter even before the teacher arrived, voices layering over each other until the sound became a soft roar.
Eliot Huang slipped through the classroom door just as the homeroom bell rang. His steps were soft, practiced in silence; he had long since mastered the art of moving without being noticed. A few students glanced up, but their eyes flicked past him as though he were part of the furniture. A chair scraping loudly drew their attention more than his entire existence.
He knew the routine.
Blend in, make yourself small and move like a shadow.
His hand tightened on the strap of his bag, and he lowered his gaze, dark lashes shielding eyes that were too easily overlooked. His sneakers whispered against the tiled floor as he made his way to his usual seat-back row, near the window. It wasn't the best spot for seeing the chalkboard, but it was the perfect place to disappear. From there, he could watch without being watched.
The classroom was a kaleidoscope of movement. Girls huddled together in groups, giggling as they whispered about who had passed notes in study hall yesterday, or who had walked Xingqiu home after practice. A cluster of boys reenacted a basketball move, one of them stretching his arm dramatically as though he'd just sunk the game-winning shot. Even before the door opened, the air felt tilted, pulled by a gravity centered around one person.
Xingqiu.
He wasn't even in the classroom yet, but his presence filled the space anyway-his name floated in conversations, his laugh echoed in memory. The entire room bent toward him, as if the light shining through the window was only a reflection of the boy himself.
Eliot set his bag down carefully, pulling out a notebook. The pages inside were filled not with lecture notes but sketches-faces half-finished, figures in motion, moments captured in graphite before they could fade away. His pencil marks were quiet confessions no one else could read. He let the page rest open, his hand hovering above it, though he didn't dare sketch now. Not yet.
The door slammed open. Teacher Chen strode in briskly, glasses perched low on his nose, the morning's mood instantly shifting. He set his books down on the desk with a thud.
"Roll call," Teacher Chen announced. His voice cut through the chatter like a knife, though it didn't silence it entirely.
Names echoed one by one.
"Wang Ruiwen?"
"Here!" Ruiwen's voice was sharp, bright with the confidence of someone who knew she mattered.
"Zhao Jianhao?"
"Yo, here." Laughter followed - Jianhao always knew how to draw it.
"Xingqiu?"
The room rippled like water disturbed by a pebble. He wasn't there yet, but several girls answered, "He'll be here!" with bubbling giggles. A boy whistled, imitating the cheers of a basketball crowd. Someone called out, "Probably slept in again!"
The teacher sighed, scribbling on his attendance sheet. His eyes skimmed the list. "Huang Yi-uh... Huang Yilong?"
Eliot hesitated, throat dry. "...Here."
The teacher blinked. "Oh. Right. Huang Yiluo."
"Eliot," he corrected softly, but his voice was drowned out by laughter from the back, where someone had cracked a joke completely unrelated to him.
Teacher Chen nodded absently, already moving on.
And just like that, Eliot's name was swallowed by the room. Forgotten again.
He lowered his eyes to his notebook. His chest tightened, but the feeling was familiar, dulled by repetition. Invisible-that was who he was here. Not a person. A shadow.
The morning dragged on. The sound of chalk scratching across the board. Pages flipping. Pencils tapping. The occasional burst of laughter whenever Xingqiu finally arrived, sliding into his chair with casual ease, hair slightly mussed from the wind. He leaned back in his seat, whispering something that made three desks of students erupt in giggles.
The teacher scolded him lightly, but even reprimand had no sting. Xingqiu grinned, offering a smooth apology, and the classroom bent toward him again, warmed by his presence like sunflowers tilting toward the sun.
Eliot kept his head down, letting his pencil glide silently across his paper. His notes were perfect, written in careful strokes no one would ever thank him for. Every so often, he would glance sideways, watching the light catch on Xingqiu's profile-the curve of his nose, the way his lips tugged upward even when he wasn't smiling fully. Eliot traced it in silence with his pencil beneath the desk, a sketch hidden by the shadow of his sleeve.
His heart ached with a yearning he couldn't name aloud.
At lunch, the cafeteria roared even louder than the morning. Metal trays clattered against counters. The smell of fried noodles and steamed buns mingled in the air. Students swarmed into their favorite spots, chatter echoing against the tiled walls.
Eliot picked a corner seat by the window, unwrapping the sandwich his mother had packed. The bread was slightly squished, but familiar. He took small bites, his gaze lowered, hands folded neatly on the table.
No one sat beside him. No one ever did.
From across the cafeteria, the difference was blinding. Xingqiu sat in the center of a crowded table, teammates slapping his shoulders, girls leaning close to offer him bites of their food. He accepted it all with a grin, laughter bubbling from him effortlessly. Someone dared him to eat two dumplings at once, and he did, nearly choking as the table erupted into cheers.
Eliot watched from afar, chewing quietly. It should have been suffocating, he thought, to be watched like that, to never eat a meal in peace. To have no silence, no corner to retreat into. But Xingqiu wore it like a crown. His every gesture-whether raising a chopstick or brushing sweat from his brow-seemed worth celebrating to the people around him.
Eliot lowered his gaze to the table, finishing his sandwich in silence. His chest ached with something fragile, something he couldn't name.
By the final bell, Eliot was exhausted, not from schoolwork, but from holding himself in a tight shell all day, shrinking small enough to avoid drawing eyes.
He didn't go home right away. Instead, he drifted toward the basketball courts, sketchbook under his arm. The air was cooler now, tinged with the promise of evening. The sun was beginning its descent, turning the sky a deep orange that bled into violet at the edges.
The court buzzed with energy: sneakers squeaked against pavement, the rhythmic thump of the ball bounced like a heartbeat, and bursts of laughter rang out louder than the referee's whistle.
And there he was.
Xingqiu.
The star of the court, the center of every gaze. His hair caught the light when he jumped, dark strands gleaming like molten bronze. His smile seemed brighter than the sun overhead, the kind of smile that could draw even the shyest soul out of hiding.
"Nice shot, Xingqiu!" someone shouted.
"Captain, over here!" a teammate called.
Girls lined the sidelines, waving, some holding banners with his name scribbled in pink. He threw a grin in their direction, and the group erupted in squeals.
Eliot sat high in the bleachers, tucked in the shadow of the roof. From there, he pulled out his pencil and began to draw. His fingers moved almost of their own will, tracing the curve of Xingqiu's arm as he reached for the basket, the confident tilt of his head when he laughed, the strength in his posture.
He sketched quickly, not worrying about perfection. What mattered was capturing the feeling, how Xingqiu seemed to shine brighter than the sunset, how the whole world seemed to spin around him.
"Caught again."
Eliot jumped, his pencil nearly slipping from his hand. He turned to see Mei Lin, her ponytail bouncing as she climbed the bleacher steps. She was one of the few who noticed him regularly, though she claimed it was only because she had sharp eyes.
"What are you doing up here?" she teased, though her gaze had already fallen on his sketchbook. "Oh. Right. That."
Eliot snapped the notebook shut, cheeks heating. "It's nothing."
Jiang smirked, leaning against the railing. "You've been sketching him for how long now? Years? At this point, your crush might be illegal."
"Shh!" Eliot hissed, his heart lurching. "Someone will hear you."
"No one's listening," she said, rolling her eyes. "Everyone's too busy drooling over Prince Charming down there." She pointed toward Xingqiu, who had just scored another basket, greeted by cheers so loud the bleachers shook.
Eliot's chest tightened. He tried to smile, but it came out brittle. "...It's not like that."
Jiang raised a brow. "Really? Then why are you blushing?"
Eliot didn't answer. He turned back toward the court, his eyes following the easy grace of Xingqiu's movements. The way he wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his jersey. The way his laughter seemed to ripple through his teammates, infecting them with energy.
Everyone adored him.
But Eliot wondered, did it ever get lonely? In that storm of attention, in the endless noise of praise and admiration, was there ever a moment when Xingqiu felt the same emptiness Eliot did in his silence?
His pencil hovered over the page, itching to put the thought into a sketch.
A group of classmates suddenly climbed the bleachers nearby, joking loudly. Eliot froze, snapping the book shut again and clutching it against his chest. His heart pounded as they passed, his palms damp with fear. If anyone saw what he had drawn, if anyone realized...
The thought made him sick. He couldn't bear the humiliation.
The group didn't spare him a glance, moving on to cheer louder for the game. Eliot released a shaky breath, his pulse slowing.
By the time the practice ended, the sky was painted in streaks of crimson and gold. The players dispersed, fans trailing after them in noisy clusters. Xingqiu lingered at the edge of the court, laughing as two teammates slapped him on the back. Even tired and sweaty, he seemed to glow.
Eliot's throat tightened. He pressed the sketchbook to his chest, as though holding his heart in place.
"I'll love you from far away," he whispered to the empty bleachers.
The words dissolved into the evening air, unheard.
But for Eliot, they were a vow.