My Deskmate is Not Human​ - Chapter 7

The early autumn after the torrential rain carried a refreshing chill.

Back at school once again.

Shen An still sat in the corner by the wall, only now he no longer wore the oversized black hoodie, letting his dark hair fall freely over his shoulders.

Some people in the class had commented on his long hair.

The homeroom teacher had mentioned it too.

But when Shen An stared straight at the teacher-

The teacher inexplicably shivered, pondering Shen An’s strange and withdrawn personality, the immense pressure of high school, and the fact that it wasn’t unheard of for students to suffer from mental illness.

To avoid unnecessary trouble, following the principle of “better less than more,” the teacher decided not to interfere anymore.

The boy quietly worked on his exercises, not distinguishing between class and break, especially fond of looking at me, and when I looked back, he would shyly lower his head.

Was it shyness?

He acted perfectly normal.

But I couldn’t shake the damp, morbid sense of being watched, so familiar and unsettling.

When I looked at him, I even vaguely sensed a chilling excitement radiating from him, as if he was receiving positive feedback and couldn’t suppress his thrill.

I pushed down my strange unease and, during break, thanked him for walking me home last Friday and returned his black umbrella.

“You’re welcome.”

He stared at me without blinking.

Classmates passing behind me formed a backdrop.

His pitch-black, lifeless pupils held only me.

That burning, sinister feeling made me instinctively avert my gaze, avoiding eye contact.

I didn’t notice that, having failed to receive the praise he wanted, his eyes became utterly dark and hollow.

The bell rang, and class resumed.

Outside, the sun blazed; inside, it was cold.

“Maybe it’s just the weather turning chilly.

“I caught a cold after getting drenched the other day.”

The homeroom teacher sneezed, wiped his reddened nose with a tissue, and hoarsely reminded us to dress warmly.

“This is for you, class monitor.”

My deskmate handed me a school jacket, whispering:

“Song Chen gave it to you.”

Song Chen was the boy who, for some reason, had been hostile toward me when we started high school, thinking I was pretentiously gentle. Yet, at the start of senior year, he inexplicably confessed to me.

My hand paused mid-writing. I turned around; the crew-cut boy in the school jacket smiled and waved at me cautiously while the teacher wasn’t looking, while his own deskmate wore only a thin sweater.

“I’m not cold.”

I pressed my lips together and refused, “Give it back to him.”

“Oh, okay.”

The temperature in the room rose a few degrees. Behind me came a loud crash as a desk toppled, the commotion drawing the attention of the whole class and the teacher.

Song Chen exclaimed “Ouch,” clutching his waist as he stood up, his face flushed as he awkwardly explained to the teacher that he hadn’t sat properly.

I didn’t look at him, gripping my pen tightly, a suspicion rising in my heart as I glanced at Shen An sitting in the front row by the wall.

He was looking back at me too, his expression calm.

It seemed like just a minor episode.

In the days that followed, during another PE class, the homeroom teacher mercifully refused to let other teachers take over the period, saying school was too exhausting and letting us relax and play.

I sat on the bright, clear sports field under the blue sky, basking in the warmth, and happened to glance at the pale boy standing under the eaves of the teaching building, holding a black umbrella and watching me.

His handsome face was so pale it didn’t look human, his lips redder than blood, and he never basked in the sun, always alone.

Suddenly, I remembered being held in his arms before, so lost in sadness that I hadn’t noticed he had no heartbeat.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it,

I had to be absolutely certain of one thing.

Shen An was not human.

He was a ghost.