The Home You Waited For

CHAPTER 5 - Between the Lines

History Class – Few weeks later…

The sun blazed relentlessly outside, making the hours drag as if time itself had slowed. Jia glanced at her watch—only two in the afternoon.

She turned her gaze back to the front of the classroom. Mr. Zhao was already writing on the blackboard: May Fourth Movement – 1919.

After writing it, he turned back to the class. “Let’s have a quick discussion. Tell me—how did the May Fourth Movement shape the identity of modern Chinese youth?”

Several students avoided his gaze, some hiding behind their books as if hoping the question would pass them by.

“Jia Liora Velasquez,” Mr. Zhao said, looking in her direction. “You’re new—share something with us.”

Jia slowly stood up. She read about the May Fourth Movement while she was still in Manila—but she wasn't sure if her perspective on it was correct. She took a deep breath to ease the anxiety she was feeling.

“I think… the movement showed that young people were capable of reshaping national ideals,” she began. “They weren’t just students—they were citizens demanding change.”

Some students nodded. But then someone scoffed, barely audible from the other side of the room.

Before Jia could finish, a voice cut in—sharp and unexpected.

“That’s oversimplified.”

It was Lu Chenxi.

He hadn’t looked at her, but his words landed heavy in the room. He flipped a page in his book, calm but blunt.

Jia blinked, surprised by Chenxi’s words. It was the first time she’d heard his voice since their introduction; she’d noticed him avoiding her ever since. Yet, she often caught him watching her, noticing every move she made. She remembered asking Yuhan if Chenxi had a problem with her, but her cousin had simply shrugged and told her to ignore him. Her thoughts snapped back to the present when the teacher’s voice cut through the classroom.

"Care to elaborate, Lu Chenxi?" he said, turning his attention to him.

Chenxi answered without hesitation. He didn't even stand up and just remained seated. “The movement didn't succeed on passion alone. It also failed in some ways—no immediate reforms, and divisions among the youth. It's not heroic just because it's remembered.”

There was silence.

Jia stared at him. Her throat felt tight, but she managed to speak. “I wasn’t saying it was perfect. I was talking about its impact.”

Chenxi looked at her for the first time. She couldn't read the emotion in his eyes. “Then you should have said that more clearly.”

The bell rang a moment later—relief to some, disappointment to others.

As the class packed up, Jia sat frozen, eyes on her bag but hands unmoving. The sting wasn’t from being corrected. It was how he said it. Like she was just another voice in the room—not the one he’d welcomed only days before with a quiet “welcome to Phoenix.”

She shoved her books into her bag.

Chenxi didn’t say anything else. He didn’t even glance back.

One Week Later, School Canteen

The laughter and chatter of students in the school canteen had become just another background noise. The clatter of trays and the scrape of chairs added to the din. Even at the height of lunchtime, Jia and Xie Hao managed to find a quiet spot in a corner by the window, away from the bustle of the other students.

Xie Hao stopped mid-bite, with almost half of the steamed bun she was eating still in her mouth. The glasses she was wearing also slipped down slightly to the middle of her nose.

“You always eat so slowly,” she said to Jia, her voice carrying a gentle, teasing tone. She watched her friend idly stirring the food in front of her.

Jia smiled, feeling embarrassed. “I'm still getting used to the flavors.”

“Hmm,” Xie Hao responded thoughtfully. She was rummaging through her bag and pulled out a sketchpad. It opened the pages containing soft pencil lines – school rooftops, trees outside their section's window, and the backs of students while they were listening to the class. It stopped on a new page, glanced at Jia, then smiled. “Don't be angry.”

Jia leaned closer—and saw a sketch of her own profile, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes focused somewhere far away. Her heart stilled.

“You drew me?”

“You were sitting by the window during the break. You looked like you were thinking about… I don’t know. Something heavy,” Xie Hao said with a shrug. “I draw what I see.”

Jia carefully touched the page of her friend’s sketchbook. A slight smile curved her lips. “That’s really good… you made me look calm.”

“You were calm. Just… not quiet.” Xie Hao adjusted her glasses. “You do that thing. Where your body stays still, but your eyes don’t. Like they’re moving through pages’ no one else can read.”

Jia chuckled, a little caught off guard. “That’s very specific.”

“I told you, I observe,” Xie Hao said, glancing around their surroundings. Then she turned back to her, speaking almost in a whisper. “Like how you and Chenxi don’t really talk much… but when you do, everyone notices.”

Jia froze, stunned, and dropped the spoon she was holding. It clattered loudly onto the food tray in front of her.

Xie Hao noticed her reaction. “Oh… sorry. Did I say something weird?”

“No. It’s just…” Jia lowered her voice. “People think that?”

“I don't know what it is,” Xie Hao said honestly. “I just know that when you said something in class that day, he didn't look angry. He looked... like he wasn't used to someone standing up to him and also staying. Most people don't.”

Jia lowered her gaze. Her confrontation with Chenxi in History class had left a significant impact on her, and the great wall between them grew even larger. Unlike their first meeting and introduction, he seemed to be distancing himself from her. Jia also felt that Chenxi wanted to change the seating arrangement so they wouldn’t be seatmates anymore.

But sometimes she felt his eyes on her during class, or noticed him lingering in the hallway outside their classroom after dismissal, as if he was waiting for her to leave. Although Chenxi didn’t walk with her, he stayed just a few steps behind until they left the school. Jia was also confused by Chenxi’s actions, but she couldn’t say anything, afraid of misinterpreting things. She wondered if Xie Hao or her cousin Yuhan had witnessed any of those moments.

“I don’t really understand him,” Jia murmured. “But sometimes… I feel like he understands me. More than I want him to.”

Xie Hao nodded, clearly lost in thought, then picked up a pencil. “If you want, I can sketch him next—side by side with yours.”

Jia raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Just to see if you’re a good fit,” Xie Hao said casually.

Jia couldn’t help but laugh at what her friend said.

AND at that exact moment, across the canteen, Lu Chenxi glanced up from his seat three tables away, his eyes landing on Jia’s smile—the kind that reached her eyes.

This was different.

She was laughing at something Xie Hao had said, head tilted just slightly, eyes warm and crinkling at the edges. Her smile—the real one, the one that lit up her whole face—spread without hesitation.

She didn’t see him watching.

But he felt it.

That smile—he hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to see it again. How much he’d been waiting for it, even without knowing.

And now that it was there, he couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t for him.

And yet… it still hit like a punch wrapped in silk.

Around him, the world carried on. Voices rose, footsteps passed, trays clattered.

But inside him, something had shifted.

And suddenly, his heart was no longer slow.

Thursday Morning, Literature Class

It was raining that morning. The soft patter of rain hitting the classroom window can be heard. Their Literature teacher, Mrs. Han was walking back and forth at the front of the class, holding a copy of the book Dream of the Red Chamber.

“Page 162,” she said to them. Baoyu's line: “Is there anyone who truly understands my heart?”

Mrs. Han looked up, scanning the room. “Jia, read it aloud and give us your interpretation.”

Jia stood up from her chair, her eyes fixed on the page their teacher had mentioned. Her Mandarin was fluent, but sometimes her Filipino accent would naturally slip into her speech.

However, she still read the text in the book with confidence.

A few rows back, someone whispered just loud enough to be heard.

“Foreign voice for a Chinese classic… doesn’t feel right,” Zhang Rui muttered. He was one of Jia’s classmates who often liked to tease her.

Some students quietly laughed behind their books.

Jia stopped reading, flushed with embarrassment at her classmate’s comment. She noticed Yuhan glaring at Zhang Rui, his gesture silently warning, ‘You’re dead meat’. She lowered her head, and the words in the book seemed to blur before her eyes.

Then, a chair scraped lightly across the floor.

Chenxi’s voice cut through the murmurs.

“Her accent doesn’t change the meaning,” he said, soft but edged with quiet authority. “She understands Baoyu better than you do.”

It was as if an angel had passed by—the class suddenly fell silent. Even Mrs. Han seemed taken aback by Chenxi’s words. He didn’t look at anyone, simply leaned back in his chair, flipping through the pages as if nothing had happened.

“Che-Chenxi,” Zhang Rui called out to him, stammering. Chenxi turned to look at him, but only gave him a dirty look before returning his gaze to the book.

Jia turned slightly to Chenxi. Her chest rose slowly. Her hands stopped trembling. And for the first time since she walked into this classroom, she felt like she wasn't sitting in it alone.

THE final bell had rung. Students poured into the hallway, filling it with noise—laughter, the zipping and unzipping of bags, and the shuffle of shoes as they walked and ran.

Jia didn’t leave the classroom immediately, even though Yuhan and Xie Hao had already asked her to go with them. She told them she would just meet them at the school gate later.

She packed her books slowly, sensing Chenxi hesitantly rising from his desk beside her. She felt his eyes on her. Without a word, Jia watched him walk out, his bag slung over his shoulder. He always moved as if he weren’t in a hurry, yet never wasted a single step.

Jia waited until most of their classmates had left the classroom.

"Chenxi," she called out to him out of the blue.

Chenxi turned slightly to look at her. His expression remained unchanged, but something in his eyes faltered—it seemed unexpected that she had called him by name.

Jia stepped closer. They were far enough apart that no one else could hear what she was saying to him.

“About earlier,” she said softly. “In Literature class.”

Chenxi blinked and glanced at her, as if unsure whether what she was about to say mattered. Jia felt a flush of embarrassment creeping over her again.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” she replied, surprising both of them. “But I still wanted to say thank you.”

He looked at her, observing intently. There was a spark in his eyes that she didn’t understand.

Jia hesitated, then added, “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“I know,” Chenxi said in a low voice. “But they were wrong. So, I said it.”

Jia could only nod at Chenxi’s words. Her mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, but she remained silent. Instead, she pulled a folded piece of paper from inside her book—a hand-copied quote from Dream of the Red Chamber. She had circled and underlined part of it, adding a short note: “For once, someone understood me without asking.”

She placed it on Chenxi's desk. "You wrote better notes than the book," she said. Then, without looking back, she walked out of the classroom.

CHENXI stood there for a long moment. There was no expression on his face, but he kept holding the paper Jia had left. It felt like it meant more than he was ready to admit.