After history class wrapped up, I gathered my notes, sliding them into my bag as Zichen gave me a nod of acknowledgment before heading to his next class. The weight of Ms. Lu's expectations still lingered, but I felt lighter knowing I had navigated the class without a complete meltdown.
The cafeteria buzzed with its usual midday lawlessness—students crowding around tables, laughing, debating, sharing food, and occasionally, someone shouting over the noise to get their friends' attention.
I spotted Baihe at our usual spot by the windows, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the frenzy around her. Beside her sat Yike, his face buried in a book as if the surrounding chatter didn't exist.
I hesitated for a moment before walking over, the echoes of my morning still roaming at the edge of my mind. Baihe noticed me first, her face lighting up as she waved me over.
"Taryn! Over here," she called out, her voice cutting through the din.
I made my way to the table, my tray balancing a barely appetizing sandwich and a bottle of water. "Hey," I greeted, sliding into the seat across from her.
Baihe's warm smile never failed to put me at ease. "How was history? You and Zichen seemed on fire in there."
I shrugged, trying to downplay it. "It was fine. Zichen did most of the heavy lifting and how did you know?"
Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "Don't sell yourself short. Anyway, we were just heading to the cafeteria then I heard your voice. That is why Yike and I decided to start discussing our research drafts."
At the mention of "we," Yike glanced up briefly, his gaze brushing past me like I was invisible before returning to his book. The pointed lack of acknowledgment stung, but I pushed it aside.
This wasn't new.
Baihe, ever the diplomat, tried to bridge the gap.
"Yike's draft is coming along really well. He's focusing on the nuances of celestial navigation in ancient maritime cultures. Fascinating stuff."
Yike let out a noncommittal grunt, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he found the whole conversation trivial.
I bit back the urge to snap at him. This was just how he was—distant, aloof, and occasionally outright dismissive when it came to me.
"What about you?" Baihe asked, turning her attention back to me.
"How's your draft coming along?"
"It's…getting there," I said, twisting the cap off my water bottle. "I'm still piecing together the cultural intersections for Lyra—trying to find a balance between mythology and science."
"Sounds like you're on the right track," Baihe encouraged, her sincerity unmistakable.
As we spoke, I couldn't ignore the weight of Yike's silence. He flipped a page in his book, the sound almost exaggerated in the charged atmosphere.
Baihe, sensing the tension, changed the subject. "By the way, we've got training after class today. You can skip if you want—you trained solo yesterday, so Coach won't mind. But if you want to join the team, that's cool too."
I nodded, grateful for her understanding. Training had been my escape lately—a way to channel my frustrations and clear my head. But the thought of being around Yike, with his barely concealed disdain, made me hesitate.
Yike scoffed, the sound sharp and derisive. "Maybe she should stick to training alone. Less distraction for the rest of us."
The words hit like a punch, and I felt my cheeks flush. "Excuse me?" I said, my voice sharper than I'd intended.
He finally looked up, his expression as impassive as ever. "You heard me. You do your thing, we do ours. Simple."
Baihe's eyes darted between us, her usual composure faltering. "Yike, that's uncalled for."
"It's the truth," he said with a shrug, as if that justified his rudeness.
I clenched my fists under the table, the morning's frustrations bubbling to the surface. "You know, for someone so obsessed with 'nuances,' you have a knack for being blunt."
"Better blunt than pretending everything's fine," he shot back.
"Okay, that's enough," Baihe interjected, her voice firm but not unkind. "We're a team, remember? Let's act like it."
Yike muttered something under his breath and returned to his book, effectively ending the conversation. I stared at my sandwich, my appetite thoroughly gone.
Later that afternoon, I found myself on the track, the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the ground doing little to quell the storm in my head. Training with the team had been a mistake. Every glance from Yike felt like a judgment, every comment tinged with passive aggression. Even Baihe's attempts to mediate couldn't break through the wall he'd built between us.
I was paired with Yike, much to his visible displeasure. As I reached out to pass the baton, he snatched it with unnecessary force, throwing off my balance.
"Careful," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to trip."
I bit my tongue, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But it was clear to everyone that the tension between us was palpable.
Baihe suggested a new formation for an upcoming event, one that played to my strengths. Yike immediately dismissed it, questioning whether I could handle the pressure.
"Maybe we should stick to what works," he said, pointedly avoiding my gaze.
"And what, ignore potential improvements because you're too stubborn to try something new?" I shot back, unable to hold my frustration any longer.
The argument escalated, drawing the attention of the entire team. Baihe stepped in, her voice calm but firm, diffusing the situation before it could spiral further.
By the end of practice, I felt drained—physically, emotionally, and mentally. As I gathered my things, Baihe approached, her expression a mix of concern and sympathy.
"Don't let him get to you," she said softly. "He's...complicated."
"That's an understatement," I muttered, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
She smiled faintly. "Just remember, you're not alone in this. You've got the rest of us."
As I stared down at the ground, disturbed thoughts, Yike's sharp words still echoing in my mind, I found myself drifting back to a memory of the library the other day.
Yike had surprised me that day. He wasn't his usual dismissive self—if anything, he seemed almost…civil. When I mentioned the note to him, his reaction wasn't what I expected. He didn't scoff or roll his eyes, as he usually did when I spoke to him.
But today, that version of Yike felt like a distant memory. He was back to being harsh and cold, his words cutting through the air with the precision of a scalpel.
I couldn't help but wonder what had caused the shift. Was it my rivalry with him—our constant competition to outdo one another in class, on the team, in everything? Or was there something deeper, something I couldn't quite grasp?