Chapter 1
1955words
I stepped out of my home and immersed myself into the river of humanity known as "the street." My gaze, as always, maintained a precise angle, fixed firmly on the ground, people's shoes, or the briefcases they carried, never intersecting with any face. Eyes are the source of disaster, the most direct windows to malice and judgment—I've long understood this truth. Yet despite my precautions, those silent "noises" still penetrated my defenses. I didn't need to look at their faces to "see" them. That office worker who instantly furrowed his brow after someone bumped his shoulder, the 0.5-millimeter downward pull at the corner of his mouth—a silent curse against the entire crowded world; that high school girl who barely squeezed onto the train, the fleeting expression on her face at the moment the doors closed, a mixture of relief and contempt for the crowd left behind, like a tiny poisonous thorn.
These "micro-expressions" are my curse. They are everywhere, unavoidable, like deadly spores in the air, magnified into grotesque monsters before my eyes. People think they conceal themselves well, believing that those fleeting moments of disgust, impatience, and smugness are hidden beneath masks called "social etiquette." But they're wrong. I can see them. I see them crystal clear, and because of this, I must close my eyes, plug my ears, and punish myself for this innate sin of peering into the filth of human nature.
Entering the classroom of Class 2-B, the morning clamor reached its peak. I made my way through those animated chatting groups, finding my window seat that seemed isolated from the rest, like a submarine sinking into the safety of deep waters. The white noise faithfully fulfilled its duty, turning all those noisy conversations into muffled background sounds. However, when our homeroom teacher Mr. Thompson's signature, somewhat tired voice rang out, even through my earphones, I could feel the change in the vibrations of the air.
"Everyone, please quiet down. We have a transfer student joining our class today. Please get along well with them."
I didn't look up. In my field of vision, I could only see Mr. Thompson's worn leather shoes and a pair of brand-new, spotlessly clean indoor shoes. The owner of those shoes seemed very nervous, standing motionless with feet together, slightly pigeon-toed. I could imagine that at this moment, about forty gazes from the entire class were focused on her like searchlights, mercilessly scanning and analyzing her. This kind of scrutiny was more wounding than actual blades.
"Well then, Alicia, please introduce yourself," Mr. Thompson's voice carried a formulaic encouragement.
A moment of silence. The air seemed to freeze. I could almost hear that suffocating stillness beyond the white noise in my headphones. The girl still hadn't moved or made any sound. Whispers began to rise in the classroom, with curiosity, confusion, and a hint of impatience starting to ferment. I could "see" them, those subtle, malicious glances crossing each other.
Just then, I heard the sound of paper rustling. Instinctively, I raised my gaze ever so slightly by a few centimeters. That girl—Alicia Hayes, the name that was later written on the blackboard—was lowering her head, with slightly trembling hands holding up an A4-sized sketchbook. The notebook was brand new, the pages pristine white, with a few words written in elegant black marker.
"Alicia Hayes. Pleased to meet you."
She held her head low, her long bangs almost covering her entire face. I could only see her tightly pursed lips and pale jawline. She was like a frightened small animal, using this thin cardboard as her last shield against the gaze of the entire world.
"Wow, what a unique self-introduction!" A crisp, pleasant voice broke the deadlock. It was Vanessa Mitchell, the acknowledged "queen" of our class, who always wore exquisite makeup and maintained a friendly, perfect smile. She gently clapped her hands, "Alicia Hayes, you're so shy, it's really cute."
Her voice was like a candy dropped into a pond, immediately drawing a chorus of kind, or rather seemingly kind, agreeing laughter. The atmosphere eased instantly. But I saw it. Behind Takatsugi's flawless smile, in the exchanged glances of the girls beside her, was something entirely different. It wasn't welcome, but rather a curiosity and scrutiny similar to that of zoologists discovering a rare species, carrying a condescending amusement, as if saying "Oh? We have an interesting new toy this semester." Their lips barely moved, but that sense of superiority was clearly written in their slightly raised eyebrows.
"Alright, alright," Mr. Thompson sighed with relief. He pointed to the empty seat beside me, "Alicia, please sit next to Kiritani, that seat is vacant."
My heart skipped a beat. That empty seat was my unspoken "do not enter unless invited" territory that I had earned through a whole year of reclusiveness. Now, it was about to be invaded.
Alicia Hayes approached me with her sketchbook, silent as a ghost. I could smell a faint scent of paper and ink emanating from her. She pulled out a chair, her movements so subtle they made almost no sound, and quietly sat down. Between us was a distance of about fifty centimeters, but these fifty centimeters felt like an invisible, cold wall. Her presence was peculiar—though silent and trying to make herself as small as possible, she was like a black hole, constantly reminding me that the "safe zone" beside me had disappeared.
I turned my head to look out the window, pretending to be interested in the scenery outside. The white noise in my earphones seemed to have been turned up in volume, the hissing becoming exceptionally clear, as if desperately resisting this new variable called "neighboring table." I could feel her gaze, though she wasn't looking at me, but that sense of presence from the side, from another person, stimulated my skin like a weak electric current. She didn't move again, just sat silently like me, and then I glimpsed from the corner of my eye that she had opened a sketchbook with blank pages, quietly staring at that pure white space. One person using white noise to isolate from the world, another facing the world with white paper. We were like two prisoners trapped in different dimensions, so close yet so far away.
The first class was Classical Chinese Literature. The teacher's monotonous tone served as the perfect lullaby, allowing me to effortlessly sink my consciousness into the world of my sketchbook. I don't draw for any particular reason, only to expel those "noises" that pollute my vision. The contemptuous corner of a mouth I saw on the tram this morning was now frozen on paper with distorted lines, like an ugly specimen. This is a ritual—sealing those negative, invasive expressions on paper so that my world could temporarily regain moments of purity.
Suddenly, an extremely faint, almost imperceptible sound interrupted my thoughts. It was a crisp "click," followed by the sound of something rolling. I didn't need to turn my head to know what had happened. Something had fallen off the desk of the person sitting next to me. I could sense her body instantly stiffen, as if even her breathing had stopped. She must be afraid, afraid that this tiny accident would once again make her the center of attention for the entire class.
A silent war began in my heart. Reason told me I should bend down and help her pick it up—this was the simplest, most normal action. A mere half-second movement would solve the problem. But my body felt like it was filled with lead, unable to move. Helping her pick up the pen meant having to interact with her. How would she react? Would she bow? Or would she write "thank you" in her notebook? And then what? How should I respond? Nod? Or ignore it? Any option carried the risk of being observed, of being scrutinized. My throat went dry, and cold sweat seeped from my palms. I hated my own incompetence and cowardice, but fear was a massive net that kept me firmly trapped in place.
Time was infinitely stretched in this moment. I could clearly feel her hesitation and embarrassment. She must have been lowering her head, with her gaze wandering between the ground and her knees, not daring to make any movement. Finally, a figure reached out from in front of me. It was Simon from the row ahead. He casually bent down, picked up the fallen mechanical pencil, then turned around and handed it over with a kind smile.
"Alicia, your pencil." His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just right for everyone nearby to hear, showing his thoughtfulness.
Alicia Qinyin suddenly raised her head like a startled deer, flustered as she took the pencil, then quickly bowed, almost at a ninety-degree angle. After that, she hastily wrote something in her signature sketchbook and held it up for him to see.
"Thank you very much."
"You're welcome," Simon smiled and waved his hand, then turned back. Everything seemed so perfect, a heartwarming scene of a "helpful classmate assisting the shy transfer student." If I weren't me, perhaps I would have thought so too.
But in that instant when Simon turned around to face the blackboard, I saw his face clearly. The corner of his mouth curled upward in an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible arc. That wasn't a genuine smile of pleasure from helping others. No, it was something entirely different. Mixed within was a hint of showing off, a trace of satisfaction from having his "good deed" witnessed by others, and a slight, condescending sense of superiority towards Alicia's "clumsy" reaction. That smile seemed to say: "Look how kind and considerate I am. And you, you're just a pitiful creature who needs my help."
This expression, this distorted smile that lasted less than a second, was like a burning engraving knife, deeply branded onto my retina. The world became unbearably ugly once again. I felt a wave of physical nausea. I abruptly lowered my head, flipped open my sketchbook to a new page, and gripped my pencil with an almost spasmodic force.
Without the slightest hesitation, with the fastest speed and most precise strokes, I drew that smug smile I had just seen—the one flaunting goodwill—in the corner of my sketchbook, exactly as it appeared. The graphite of the pencil made a rustling sound against the paper, which was my only way to fight against this world. I sealed that twisted smugness, along with its accompanying sense of superiority and hypocrisy, completely within this small cage constructed of lines.
After finishing the drawing, I realized my knuckles had turned white from applying too much pressure. I raised my head, glanced at the gray sky outside the window, then cast a sidelong glance to the side.
Alicia Hayes was sitting there silently, holding the pen she had lost and found again, yet not moving. She lowered her head, her gaze falling on the blank sketchbook in front of her, as if she were looking at a snow field that could never be filled.
