Almost blind | Haobin

29| a chick |29

The gym pulsed with noise—shoes squeaking against the polished wooden floor, the rhythmic thud of the futsal ball bouncing between players, and the occasional sharp whistle from the frustrated teacher. Laughter and shouts mingled with the echoes of movement, creating a symphony of chaos that filled every corner of the vast space. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, stirred up by the constant motion of restless students.

It was the last PE lesson before the Christmas break, but no one was truly present. Minds drifted beyond the four walls, already lost in the warmth of holiday lights, the scent of home-cooked meals, and the thought of snow falling outside frosted windows. Even the teacher, though trying to maintain order, seemed exhausted—torn between enforcing discipline and simply letting the students enjoy their last moments here.

Hanbin wasn’t paying attention either. His focus kept slipping away from the game, his eyes drawn again and again to the lone figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the gym.

Zhanghao.

He sat hunched over his sketchpad, his head tilted downward, pencil moving in swift, fluid strokes across the paper. His dark hair fell into his face, partially obscuring his expression, but his posture spoke volumes—completely detached from the world around him. The shouts, the whistles, the thudding of feet on the floor—none of it seemed to exist for him.

Hanbin exhaled sharply.

The last time they had PE, Hao had been on the court, playing like the rest of them, his rare smile slipping through in moments of excitement. Now, he was stuck on the bench, sidelined, forced to sit and watch while everyone else ran free. Hanbin knew, even if Hao didn’t say it, that he wanted to be out there too.

And for some reason, that bothered him.

With a sigh, Hanbin ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling the sweat cool against his skin. His throat was dry. He needed water—at least, that’s what he told himself as he left the court and made his way to the bench where his bottle rested.

As he twisted the cap open and took a sip, he let his eyes drift toward Hao’s sketchpad. He could only see faint traces of lines, shadows forming across the page.

“What are you drawing now, huh?” Hanbin asked, keeping his tone light, teasing. He tilted his head slightly as he took another sip, letting the cool water slide down his throat. His damp bangs clung to his forehead, sweat forming along his temple. He tried to appear indifferent, nonchalant.

“Nothing.”

Hao’s response was clipped, impassive. Not bratty, not defensive—just flat. He made it clear that he didn't want to talk to Hanbin.

Hanbin frowned slightly, setting his bottle back down. He wasn’t sure why it annoyed him, but it did. “You’re always sketching something,” he pressed, leaning in just a little, trying to sneak a look.

Hao reacted instantly, snapping the sketchpad against his chest as if shielding a secret. “It’s just a draft for my next painting,” he muttered, this time with a hint of irritation in his voice.

Hanbin blinked. “Oh.” He paused, then smirked slightly. “For Yujin?”

Something in Hao’s expression hardened. His fingers gripped the edges of the sketchpad tighter, his jaw tensing. “Stop acting like you care,” he said quietly, his voice colder than before.

Hanbin didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze flickered to the slight opening in the sketchpad, catching a glimpse of the drawing beneath Hao’s fingers. A winter landscape—snow-covered trees standing tall under a sky dusted with faint stars, a frozen river where tiny figures skated, a lone snowman perched on a hill, watching the scene unfold.