I've been running into a boy quite often these days.
Of average height and probably around my age, he seems like a high school student. Sometimes he appears on the bustling pedestrian street, other times in dimly lit corners of the city, or even in near-empty movie theaters. I can tell he doesn't have many friends because he's always alone.
Occasionally, I see him walking to and from school with classmates. His friends like to tease him, and when they do, he just lowers his head with a shy, silly grin.
Once, in the library, he sat across from me, engrossed in a book. When he looked up to take a sip of water, I got a clear glimpse of his face. His eyes were particularly unique—almond-shaped with a slight hint of being cross-eyed. He only wears those thick-framed glasses when reading or using his phone. His hair is always neatly cut short.
To be honest, I don't like it when boys perm or dye their hair. I prefer that natural, "untainted by the world" vibe.
His nose is small, and his face is round with plump cheeks. If you only looked at his face, you might think he's a little chubby. But I know his build isn't overweight—at least, it's within the normal range. Still, he always wears oversized clothes, so to others, he comes across as a bit pudgy.
Truthfully, I don't believe in the idea of a "most beautiful person" like in fairy tales. Everyone has their own unique traits, and compared to flawless looks or a perfect body, I think certain quirks are far more charming. I've never been drawn to "gods."
Rather than untouchable, lofty deities, I prefer the humanity and warmth of ordinary people. Even if they aren't outstanding in looks or abilities, that's precisely what draws me in.
After starting university, I often see that boy around campus. I didn't think much of it—just assumed he enrolled in the same school as me, a fairly ordinary provincial university.
I don't know his major or class, but I keep spotting him everywhere.
He jogs on the rubber track in the mornings, his pace slow, his breathing steady in the crisp morning air. Sometimes he even stops, hands on his knees, catching his breath, his bangs damp with sweat sticking to his forehead. That determined yet slightly struggling look makes it clear he's no elite athlete—just an ordinary student pushing himself.
As I walk slowly along the outer lane of the track, my gaze lingers on his flushed cheeks and focused expression. Something inside me stirs—this clumsy persistence feels more grounded than any effortless sprint.
He reads quietly in the pavilion, his profile slender, and something in my chest tightens. He's completely lost in his own world, undisturbed by the outside.
He studies in an empty classroom, the only sounds the scratch of his pen on paper and my own softened breaths. It doesn't feel lonely—instead, it's like a strange companionship, full of quiet reassurance. I sit a few rows behind him, not disturbing.
In the crowded cafeteria line, he stands quietly, his gaze distant, wearing the same bland, waiting-for-food expression as everyone else.
These trivial, undramatic moments are like countless specks of dust, visible in the beam of time.
His every action silently tells me: Look, this is a living, breathing person—focused yet distracted, persistent yet moody, hardworking yet weary, hungry for knowledge as much as a warm meal. He's not a meticulously crafted work of art but a real, imperfect individual, rough around the edges, breathing and warm, moving through an ordinary life.
University days flow like a pre-set routine, steady and predictable. That figure in oversized clothes keeps appearing in my line of sight like a moving coordinate, an unsolved riddle quietly lodged in my heart.