September 1st Early Autumn
'Xun Ruiwen smells like a meat factory.'
Signed, Xun Ruiwen.
"..."
Xun Ruiwen clenched the blackboard eraser, his knuckles paling from the pressure.
With a heavy sigh, he wiped his name from the chalkboard, watching the white dust cascade down with an indifferent expression.
After a pause, a wry smile tugged at his lips as he returned the eraser to its place.
A meat factory? Quite the specific analogy. And who signs their own name under a self-insult? At least make it believable, idiots.
Xun Ruiwen arrived early, finding himself alone in the classroom.
Yet, on this first day, someone had already scrawled his name on the chalkboard.
To some, a quiet demeanor was an affront, a silent proclamation of superiority.
They believed that his reticence and solitary nature were judgments cast upon them.
In truth, these very misconceptions drove Xun Ruiwen to solitude. Ironically, his withdrawal only seemed to paint a larger target upon his back.
Despite this, Xun Ruiwen possessed a stubbornness that refused to bend for those threatened by the silence.
Instead, he chose to insulate himself further, feigning indifference to the world around him.
Over time, the vibrant world that once teemed with hue began to appear beige to Xun Ruiwen.
This perception extended to his art; his pencil captured the world in muted shades.
Outwardly, he seemed to disdain the complexities of human interaction.
However, in reality, he often reflected upon them, translating his musings into personal sketches.
What began as a mere pastime evolved into an essential outlet, for even the most reserved individuals observe and listen.
And even those with the coldest gazes possess hearts that feel.
It was inevitable that someone would eventually remind him of this truth.
On this autumn morning, a gentle melody drifted down the corridor.
Xun Ruiwen's head lifted, his brows knitting in curiosity.
Music? At this hour?' he pondered.
Dismissing the thought, he leaned over his desk to retrieve his pencil case from his bag.
Then, he carefully unzipped it, extracting a slender black pencil with a fine lead.
He reached into his desk, and pulled out an old notebook.
Its pages were worn from the previous year.
The spine creaked softly as he opened it, the paper bearing the faint scent of dust from months of neglect.
With a graceful hand, he began to sketch, his strokes aligning with the rhythm of the distant melody.
Unconscious of the emerging image, he closed his eyes, immersing himself in the harmonious blend of pencil gliding over paper and the soothing solo jazz tune that filled the air.
As the music ceased, his hand halted abruptly, and his eyes snapped open.
Gazing down at his creation, his eyes widened in surprise.
The drawing was unremarkable, merely an abstract array of lines radiating from the center, converging into the notebook's crease.
Xun Ruiwen frowned, running his thumb over the central line, smudging the lead of each stroke.
The once simple lines now deepened, transforming into a peculiar art piece with added depth beneath his touch.
He studied it momentarily before closing the notebook and tucking it back into his desk.
The melody resumed, the same soothing tune seeping into the room.
This time, Xun Ruiwen rested his head on his desk, arms folded beneath as a makeshift pillow.
His bangs fell over his right eye as he gazed out the window, observing the beige world he had replicated on paper countless times.
Silently, he mused, I've never listened to jazz often. Maybe I've found something new to like.