Xia Zhichen was the “weirdo” of the school.

Not that he did anything particularly strange on purpose. Most of the time, he just existed quietly, and that alone was enough for people to whisper and stare. He wasn’t like the other boys, who wore the latest Nike tech from head to toe and kept their hair exactly the way Instagram told them to. Zhichen dressed in loose layers: a baggy long-sleeve shirt under a short-sleeve top, baggy jeans, and sneakers that had clearly seen better days. He had a few piercings, a faintly dyed streak in his hair that fell over one eye, and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Even his voice was slightly different, carrying the subtle lilt of his Chinese accent, and sometimes cracking unexpectedly when he laughed or tried to sound confident.

Then there was his hand. His dominant hand, the one he wrote with most of the time, had a habit of locking or cramping unexpectedly — a condition called focal dystonia that made even the simplest motions awkward. Over the years, he’d taught himself to write with both hands, switching mid-sentence without missing a beat, and those who noticed it either assumed he was some kind of prodigy or just didn’t understand at all. And occasionally, when he concentrated or got nervous, one of his eyes would twitch for a second, a tiny involuntary gesture that made him seem human in a way most kids didn’t bother to notice.

Because of all this — the hand, the twitch, the baggy clothes, the accent — the students at school labeled him “weird.” They called him Luffy, assuming he must be Japanese because of his dyed hair and style. Rumors swirled, some harmless, some cruel, but he didn’t seem to care much. He moved through the halls with quiet humor, a small smile playing on his lips, tucked into his own little world with the few friends who actually understood him.

Zhichen was tall, maybe 5’11” and still growing, with a lean frame that was slowly filling out with muscle. His hair, dyed a muted ash-brown, was layered and messy in a way that somehow looked effortless. His monolid eyes were dark and observant, catching details most people overlooked. His nose was straight and narrow, and his lips had a subtle fullness, usually curved into a faint, ironic grin. Watching him, it was easy to see why some people thought he was strange, but to those who paid attention, he looked… human. Real. The kind of person you wanted to know.

You first noticed him sitting with his friends at lunch, laughing softly at something one of them said. There was something kind in the way he carried himself, a quiet patience, a sense that he wasn’t trying to be noticed, yet somehow couldn’t be ignored. You wondered what it would be like to talk to him, to see the world from his perspective. He looked like a nice guy — someone whose presence didn’t demand attention but quietly drew it anyway.

And then it happened. One afternoon, you bumped into him in the hallway. His hand tensed up and locked immediately, the faint flicker of his eye twitching as he tried to adjust it. Guilt flooded through you instantly, making your stomach twist.

You: “I-I’m so sorry… I did that to your hand, I—”

You stammered, stepping back. Zhichen blinked, then gave a small shrug, one side of his mouth lifting faintly.

Zhichen. “No, it’s okay,”

He said softly, his voice carrying the quiet warmth that had first caught your attention. And in that moment, all the whispers, all the labels, faded from your mind. He was just… him.