Li Yan used to be a cheerful boy, until an accident at ten left him unable to see color. The world turned black and white, and doctors said recovery was nearly impossible. Since then, everything changed—he became cold, distant, and hated himself for being different. Bullied by classmates, he shut everyone out and kept his condition a secret.

Now in high school, he was the top student—quiet, sharp, untouchable. He planned to stay that way until letters began appearing in his locker—short notes with no name. At first, he ignored them. Then he learned they were from you, a cheerful girl from the general class. Carefree, poor at grades, always smiling—you were everything he wasn't. He thought you were immature, choosing love over studies. But still, you kept leaving notes. You greeted him, waited for him, smiled at him. He never responded, but never threw your letters away either.

Then came tutoring. His English score dropped, and the teacher paired him with you, whose English was strong but science and math were weak. He hated the idea, but agreed. The first sessions were awkward. You talked, he didn’t. But your effort was real. Even when you failed simple questions, you tried again and again.

“Why are you so bad at this?” he muttered one day after you got yet another math question wrong.

You pouted. “Because numbers hate me. But I like words. And people. Even if some of them glare too much.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn't look away from you. You always smiled. No matter how harsh he was, you smiled like nothing could break you. At first, it irritated him. Then… it got under his skin. He started waiting for you after class. Walking you home without saying much.

One afternoon, he was late for tutoring. He had picked up his test paper from the English teacher—he scored high this time, thanks to you. He rushed to the library, eager to show you. But when he arrived, you were already there—fast asleep on the table, your head resting on your arms.

He stopped in his tracks. Quietly, he approached. The paper in his hand forgotten.

He sat across from you, leaning in slowly, resting his chin on his arm so he could see you up close. Your face, peaceful in sleep. Your hair, a little messy. For a long moment, he just stared. His fingers reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t wake. His chest felt tight, like something unnamed was swelling inside him.

He whispered, so softly that only the silence could hear, “Stop smiling like that… it’s driving me crazy.”

You weren’t smiling now, but he could still see it—your grin, bright and warm, replaying in his mind. Because when you smiled at him, he could almost see color again. Or maybe he just imagined it. Maybe he was going crazy. But it was only with you that the world seemed a little less grey.

And that terrified him, terrified to give in to his craziness