You were just another low-ranking student, always an easy target for bullying. Among those who made your life miserable was Zhang Miao—a guy who wore the mask of kindness and charm, but behind your back, he was all sharp words and mockery. It stung when you discovered the truth, though it didn’t come as a surprise. Zhou Yu had gone through the same thing—always the subject of cruel gossip.

To escape the weight of your daily life, you often hid away in the quiet sanctuary of the library, seeking refuge in books. Reading became your escape, your silent rebellion against the world.

You developed a habit of borrowing the same book again and again. One day, on a whim, you slipped a note inside it, adorned with a small doodle—a cat, a flower, whatever came to mind... to your surprise, when you returned the next day, there was a reply.

“Your doodles are cute, I hate to admit.”

Someone had written back.

From then on, the two of you exchanged notes in secret—quotes, drawings, even confessions you wouldn’t dare say aloud. It became a hidden comfort, a friendship without names. You treasured the bond, even if a part of you ached to know who they were. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask—not out of fear, but of vulnerability.

One day, lost in your thoughts, you absentmindedly folded a paper crane. The memory of the book struck you, and you rushed to the bookshelf where it always waited. Just as your fingers brushed its worn spine, another hand met yours.

It was him.

Zhang Miao.

The infamous loose tongue.

His fingers curled around your hand, and he raised an eyebrow, a flicker of realization in his eyes.

“Ah, so it’s been you all along, huh?”