His eyebrows were strikingly handsome, more so than those of the other boys in the class. His eyelashes were thick and curled, prettier even than the girls’. And his deep-set, double-lidded eyes were so beautiful they didn’t seem like an Asian’s eyes at all.

Despite these features, he exuded no trace of delicateness. A shaft of sunlight fell across him, just like a quiet blessing—serene is the only word that fits. When this tall figure finally sat down, the spell was broken, and everyone around me resumed their heads-down focus on their work. I moved the pile of books in front of me, stacked like a small mountain, just enough to catch a clearer glimpse of the back of his head. Besides me, a few pairs of lovely eyes were also glued to his back, lost in silent admiration, which made me want to laugh. I, too, watched, but only with a sense of normalcy, simply admiring excellence.

Qiao never looked back. Perhaps he knew there were a few girls watching him, and looking back could lead to awkward misunderstandings. Besides, there wasn’t much to see in the back rows—mostly slackers and jokesters.

Sometimes, I envied those carefree souls who lived without suppression, leading lives full of color.

Everyone has their own path, and there was no judgment; they weren’t passionate about studying, but they hadn’t yet found what made them shine. Their real strengths and talents simply hadn’t surfaced.

As the cheerful bell signaled the end of class, and once everyone had finished jotting down their notes, I, the student on duty, went up to the platform to carefully wipe the blackboard, erasing every single word that the English teacher had written.

The task of cleaning the blackboard and tidying up the desk was assigned in turns, based on our student numbers. My number happened to be just before Qiao’s, and sometimes, while he was absorbed in his work, I’d handle his duty for him, quietly taking care of the blackboard when the bell was about to ring.

Whenever Qiao noticed, he’d smile and softly thank me with a voice that was pleasing to the ear.

He was always polite and constantly expressed his thanks.

And it didn’t end there. When my turn on duty came around again, he’d complete the desk tasks in advance, silently cleaning up and wiping the blackboard before looking at me with a glance that said we were even.

Yes, Qiao disliked owing anyone a favor. No matter who it was, he’d always find a way to repay them. Such a remarkable person naturally received plenty of help from girls, and I often saw him returning those favors with quiet and meticulous care.

Cleaning the blackboard was one of our few interactions over those school years.

After cleaning the board, I waved away the lingering dust and looked across the class. Among my focused classmates, I spotted Qiao patiently explaining a problem to his deskmate, his tone exceptionally gentle.

Qiao’s deskmate was named Liao Sixing, and he had a rather unfortunate appearance, with a face covered in acne and a mouth full of silver braces. Most classmates avoided him because they thought he was ugly, steering clear or, worse, making crude jokes, calling him “pimple face” or “metal-mouth.”

But weren’t the real ugly ones those who mocked him? With their twisted expressions, ugly behavior, and vile words, they were repulsive without even realizing it.

I never joined in the mockery and never stooped to their level, occasionally even standing up for Liao Sixing. But once I did, the boys would turn their teasing on me, claiming that I liked Liao Sixing.

Eventually, I stopped speaking up. But Qiao never did. When he chose to respond, his words were sharp and firm, shutting them down with a conviction that left them speechless and embarrassed.

After becoming deskmates with Qiao, Liao Sixing’s once gloomy disposition brightened, and he grew less affected by others’ teasing. I was glad for him, glad that he had Qiao as a friend. Had his grades not been last in the class, he’d never have had the chance to be Qiao’s deskmate. Because his grades were so poor, the teacher appointed Qiao to be his tutor.

I glanced down at my own unremarkable grades and felt another pang of frustration. Once I snapped back to the present, I continued polishing the lectern until it shone, arranging the blackboard eraser and chalk box neatly. Tomorrow would be Qiao’s turn for cleaning duty. Just after the class ended, Qiao would summarize the main points, always mindful of the homework assigned by the teacher. If it was heavy, he’d use the short break to get some of it done. He was, by far, the fastest and most diligent student I’d ever seen.

The next day, as I made my way to the lectern, Qiao closed his book with a deft motion and swiftly went up to tidy the area. Watching his white, slender hands move across the board was mesmerizing. When Qiao came down, I took a bold, direct look at him, but he didn’t notice me, keeping his gaze focused ahead.

After that, I stopped my little favors for the most part; Qiao began remembering to clean the blackboard himself. Occasionally, if I rose to go wipe it down, he’d step in front of me, with a distant smile, asking, “Are you obsessed with wiping the blackboard?”

I’d turn away, feeling sheepish, and say simply, “I thought it was my turn.”

I didn’t hear his reply, so I turned to glance back. He was already back at the lectern, cleaning the blackboard, his tall, slender figure gleaming slightly in the sunlight. He made the blue-and-white school uniform look elegant, with just the right touch of youthful awkwardness. I thought, he could have been a model and made some extra cash.

For most, clothes add to their appearance; for him, he added to the clothes.

I loved seeing him in that school uniform; it captured a time of perfect, serene beauty that I’ll never return to. I still have our only photo together—a class photo with all our classmates.

It’s a pity I never had a real picture with someone as exceptional as Qiao. When we graduated, he wasn’t there, not even in the graduation photo.

Years ago, when I asked our homeroom teacher for the class photo, he asked, “Why do you want the class photo when you already have the graduation one?”

After a pause, I told my respected teacher, “Without him in it, it’s not really a graduation photo.”

The teacher let out a deep “oh,” and solemnly reprinted forty-eight copies of the class photo, handing them to every student. It was the first time everyone seemed so in sync—no one questioned why we received an old class photo, no one took the lead to ask, not even the usual rowdy boys, who quietly put it away.