Chapter 2: Roll Call

Of course, she was not the only one shocked out of composure.
In that instant Jiang Ya thought she had seen wrong.
Stunned. Astonished. Unable to believe it.
Only when the person before her overlapped with the blurred face in memory did Jiang Ya drift into a daze.
Like Qi Yu, she stood rooted, at a loss. Her gaze seemed pinned to the other’s face—unwilling, or forgetting, to look away.
A person really can forget to breathe at a given moment.
Two or three seconds, yet it felt like a long illusion.
The surroundings seemed muted—parents talking, paper rustling, chairs shifting—all gone.
The whole world held only the panting figure in the doorway and the stiff person on the podium.
So this was what a true reunion after long separation was—not joy, not melancholy, but speechless facing, all emotion hidden in the eyes. Outsiders would not understand; only the two of them knew.
“Um… excuse me.”
A voice behind her finally broke the delicate silence in the classroom.
Qi Yu woke as from a dream and pulled her gaze back, stepping aside for a parent who had somehow been standing behind her.
“Teacher, I’m Zhao Sheng’s mother—I just went to the restroom. I already signed.” The woman passed Qi Yu and greeted Jiang Ya with a cheerful smile.
Jiang Ya nodded. Her eyes skimmed the woman, then returned to the figure still frozen in the doorway.
Shock had already settled into calm—but she kept staring, gaze seeming glued to Qi Yu, following her movement.
Only when Qi Yu walked forward under everyone’s watch did she belatedly feel awkward.
A moment ago she had only seen Jiang Ya. Her first thought had been to flee—then she remembered: she was here for Qi Xuan’s parent meeting.
Who could have guessed such coincidence.
Homeroom teacher surnamed Jiang… so many Teacher Jiangs in the world, and the one she ran into was Jiang Ya.
Too many feelings tangled; Qi Yu truly did not know how to face her.
She signed both sheets quickly and went down, eyes always lowered.
She never looked at Jiang Ya once—so she did not notice Jiang Ya’s gaze never left her.
Nor did she catch Jiang Ya’s greeting, half-formed and swallowed.
Qi Yu found Qi Xuan’s seat—third from the back by the window. On the desk, a pink sticky note in Qi Xuan’s hand: *Cousin, this is MY throne. Be seated!*
She peeled it off, wanting to laugh and unable to. She had to admit: even after years apart, facing Jiang Ya she could not stay unmoved, could not immediately use an easy friendly tone and say *Fancy meeting you here* as if nothing had happened.
Not that she still liked her—just too awkward.
Even after sitting, the awkwardness would not lift.
Hard to describe.
Perhaps—after years you finally took back the heart you had wanted to give someone else, hid it away, pretended nothing had ever happened.
Then, without warning, that person appeared again.
And you did not even know what expression to wear.
Only when the person on stage began to speak could Qi Yu look at her openly.
“Good evening, parents. I am Teacher Jiang, English teacher and homeroom teacher for Class Four.”
On the platform Jiang Ya faced the parents. Her pure white blouse was tucked into jeans, top button fastened, collar fitting her pale neck without a gap. She wore little jewelry—only a simple women’s watch on her left wrist.
Neat. Proper.
The earlier eye contact had been too brief. Only now did Jiang Ya’s face grow clear in Qi Yu’s sight.
Light makeup today—so light it was almost invisible, only a hint of color on her lips.
Compared with memory, not much different. Still beautiful, still striking presence—only a touch more mature now.
Right. Seven years had passed.
Actually—seven whole years.
Qi Yu sighed inwardly.
More than mourning time, she marveled at fate’s drama.
Seven years ago they met in this school. Seven years later they met here again.
Back in a classroom, looking up at Jiang Ya on the platform while Jiang Ya spoke with ease above and she listened below.
That angle gave Qi Yu a fleeting illusion—as if this scene might have happened on some day long ago.
Perhaps not only one day.
She and Jiang Ya’s story had begun in this small classroom.
Memories sealed long ago, buried under the sand of years.
Looking back, she could only recover fragments of those three years.
Jiang Ya’s first initiative to speak to her. Jiang Ya’s smile at her. Sitting together. Walking the track. Jiang Ya’s back…
Of course the deepest imprint was another scene—
“The letter I wrote… did you read it?”
That graduation night of senior year she had drunk enough courage to meet Jiang Ya alone and bring up the letter.
In it she had written how her feelings had changed over the years of knowing Jiang Ya—sentence after sentence long buried inside.
Then Jiang Ya had been the moon in the sky, bright and clean. Many people looked up at her, Qi Yu included.
Yet Qi Yu had been confident she could tell anyone: she was Jiang Ya’s only best friend, only companion, the only one Jiang Ya confided in besides family—the one Jiang Ya trusted most.
Only one thing she dared not say…
“I read it. You… what do you mean?” That night Jiang Ya faced her, no longer gentle and steady. For the first time Qi Yu clearly saw panic in her eyes.
“I said everything in the letter… I thought… we’re graduating, if I don’t say it now…”
Qi Yu’s tolerance for alcohol was poor then. Drunk and muddled, half a night of words unsaid, she felt she was about to cry.
Jiang Ya’s next line sobered her halfway.
Qi Yu saw Jiang Ya step back, eyes clearly wet—whether from shock or disappointment she did not know.
She said: “Wait… we’re just friends, aren’t we?”
“I don’t understand what you mean… we’re two girls…”
“Isn’t being friends enough? I really… always thought of you as a very, very good friend…”
“But no matter how good friends are, friends are still only friends…”
“I’m sorry…”
Sorry—those three words carved deep in Qi Yu’s heart, sealing away the feeling she could not bring into the light.
The story began with *hello* and ended with only *sorry*.
Later she forgot which day—maybe impulse after another drunk night, maybe clarity in some deep night—she deleted Jiang Ya’s contact.
From then on they never met again.
Seven years. Everything about Jiang Ya she had scrubbed clean.
Along with those years of sour ache inside, her one-woman play—time had purified it into an ordinary past.
.
The parent meeting ran nearly two hours. Qi Yu listened with her mind elsewhere.
What did Jiang Ya say? She did not know. Class average? She did not remember. Next stage teaching plan? No idea.
She only knew: every time she looked up, she could feel Jiang Ya’s gaze from the platform.
Light. Faint. As if an accidental glance.
But she could feel it.
Midway Qi Xuan even messaged asking if she had exaggerated at all, pressing for Qi Yu’s opinion of Jiang Ya.
Qi Yu had no idea how to answer and simply did not reply.
If time could rewind, no matter how Qi Xuan begged, she would not have agreed to come.
Fortunately Qi Xuan’s seat was toward the back—not too conspicuous. When Jiang Ya looked over several times, Qi Yu looked away in time.
That was how it should be.
On the surface they were friends—but after she chose to break the window seven years ago, she and Jiang Ya were already over.
Thoughts heavy, Qi Yu sighed inwardly, folded the report card and materials into her bag, and glanced at her watch.
She was already preparing to leave when she looked up by chance and collided with the gaze on the platform.
Qi Yu pretended casual and looked away.
This time Jiang Ya’s eyes did not sweep past so quickly.
She stared toward Qi Yu—watching her lower her head, pick up her phone and put it down, gaze idly out the window…
As if in defiance, not one glance back to the front.
Jiang Ya’s grip on the presentation pen tightened unconsciously. Something unreadable stirred in her eyes. She breathed deep and pressed it down.
“Parents, that concludes today’s meeting. First year of high school is critical for foundation, habit, and goals.”
“A child’s growth depends on school and on parents’ companionship and support. I hope we will keep communicating closely and work together on your children’s learning and development.”
Jiang Ya paused and picked up the sign-in sheet from the podium.
“If I call your child’s name, that parent please stay briefly for individual discussion. Others may leave.”
With that Jiang Ya’s eyes fell on the sheet, top to bottom, then stopped on one bold elegant signature.
The name she knew best.
She looked up, gaze striking straight at the person still with head bowed.
In a moment that person seemed to sense it and lifted her head.
Again, four eyes met.
Like the unexpected encounter at the classroom door, this look held two seconds.
Qi Yu watched Jiang Ya, a dark premonition rising, breath held without meaning to.
Jiang Ya still fixed on her. Voice slow, each word clear—as if deliberately for everyone to hear—
“Qi Xuan’s parent, please stay behind.”