The editorial room's window faced the camphor grove on the west side of the playground; at four in the afternoon the sun warmed the coated-paper cover of the school magazine until it felt slightly hot. Lin Yichen sat at the cluttered long table, fingers twisting the latest sample issue of Campus Window. Ink and the dry scent of paper rose into his nose as he flipped back to page three and paused at a six-frame feature titled "Campus Snapshots."
"Nice, Yichen!" Yu Bo appeared out of nowhere, snatched the sample, and flipped through it. "This issue is full of life! Hey, look at this one," he jabbed at the lower-right frame, "a senior girl scarfing a bun before early study—her face is priceless. And this— the guard watering flowers splashing the dean's pants—bold shots, man!"
Yichen didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the upper-left photo: a side profile of Su Ziyan. Sunlight from the library's high window carved sharp light and shadow across her slightly tilted face. She sat in the old window seat, not drawing, not reading—just propping her chin and staring at the grey wall outside. Strands of hair drooped at her neck; her lashes cast a fan-shaped shadow on her nose. A tube of blue gouache rolled to the edge of her paper, ready to slip.
"Getting good at sneaking shots, huh." Xiaowen, the copy editor, elbowed him playfully. "You put up a photo of Ziyan too?"
"It's not—" Yichen's throat tightened; his fingers curled instinctively. The photo was taken last Wednesday after the library's closing tune. While packing gear, he'd peered through a gap between shelves and seen that frozen moment. The light was perfect, the composition complete; his hand had moved before his mind. The camera's cold corner pressed into his palm, the shutter clicked—like a secret.
"What 'not'?" Yu Bo grabbed the line back, waving the sample. "This is art! It's humane journalism, get a clue!"
The after-class bell cracked and the hallway filled with bodies and noise. Yichen was slower than usual packing his bag. When he zipped it up and looked up, a crowd had formed at the classroom door.
Su Ziyan stood there, face taut, lips a thin line. Behind her, her friend Zhou Lu glared, fingers digging into the sample as if to tear it, pointing at the side-profile photo.
"Lin Yichen!" Zhou Lu's voice cut through the clamor like a spike. "What's your meaning?"
Yichen's shoulder strap slipped; he grabbed it, his Adam's apple bobbing. Zhou Lu stepped forward and pressed the sample nearly to his face. "You snuck a photo and printed it? Did you ask Ziyan?" She rattled words fast: "Just because a photo looks good doesn't give you the right. Who knows what else you have on that camera!"
Passersby slowed, eyes fixed. Yichen's ears rang; Zhou Lu's words became distant and loud in turns. He wanted to explain it was part of a themed spread, to say the light and composition were right, that he meant nothing else—but the words stuck and came out thin: "I… didn't sneak photos."
"Didn't sneak?" Zhou Lu sneered and pointed at the nearly-empty orange soda on Ziyan's desk in the photo. "That angle—are you kidding? She ask you to take it?" She turned to Ziyan, scolding: "Look at him—like a mute!"
Ziyan didn't look at Zhou Lu or the onlookers. She fixed her gaze on Yichen; her expression was a spilled palette—surprise, embarrassment, and a flash of offended anger. "Why did you take this?" she asked, voice low but clear. "And why print it in the magazine?"
Yichen's fingers dug into the rough canvas of his camera bag. He wanted to tell her how special the light had been, to say he'd just thought she looked peaceful, like a painting. But the whispering faces around them formed an invisible net. He managed only, "…It was for the feature."
"For the feature my foot!" Zhou Lu snapped. "You're a creep—can't control your lens when you see a pretty girl. Ziyan, we're going to find Teacher Zhang!" She grabbed Ziyan's arm.
"Wait." Ziyan's voice came, a little hoarse. She didn't let Zhou Lu pull her along; instead she took the sample out of her friend's hand and lowered her head. Her fingertip brushed the glossy paper and stopped on the page with her side profile. The printed black ink made her look paler. She lingered on the frozen hair, the blue paint tube hanging at the desk edge, and the vacant look in her own eyes. A glare from the classroom lights speckled the page.
The murmurs grew louder.
"Was it him after all…"
"It's a nice shot, but publishing without consent is creepy."
"Look—Ziyan's face went white."
Yichen felt the camera on his back like a hot iron. He saw her knuckles blanch on the paper.
"You—" He swallowed, searching for words. At that moment the loudspeaker from the head's office crackled: "Lin Yichen, Grade One Class Seven, report to the head's office immediately. Repeat: Lin Yichen, report to the head's office immediately."
Zhou Lu smirked as if vindicated. Yichen's shoulders slumped; he pushed through the crowd in silence. Passing Ziyan, his step hesitated. She still stared at the photo; the line of her cheek looked uncommonly hard.
The head's office smelled of disinfectant and old files. Director Zhang sat behind a wide desk, holding the sample and tapping the cover with a finger. A steaming cup of tea fogged on the corner. He looked at Yichen with an appraisal that made the kid feel like a troublesome object.
"Explain," Zhang said, low and pressing. "Who approved this issue? What's with this photo?"
"I took it." Yichen stood straight, the camera bag like evidence at his side. "It's for the 'Campus Snapshots' series—every shot was meant to capture ordinary moments."
"'Ordinary moments'?" Zhang flipped pages, tone sharp. "You photograph a female classmate daydreaming and run it without consent? That's a violation of likeness rights. Do you understand? The school magazine is a public face, not a collection of sneaky shots!" He jabbed at the photograph. "Have you considered the consequences if her parents make a fuss?"
"I—didn't mean anything by it." Yichen's words tangled. "I just wanted to capture everyday life."
"Just wanted to? Who do you think you are—a reporter?" Zhang pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where's Editor Wang? How did this get printed?"
"Editor Wang saw the layout…" Yichen's voice sank. "He said it was good."
"'Good'?" Zhang barked. "Good my foot. This is trouble!" He slammed the sample onto the desk. "Find Su Ziyan. Bring her here to explain and apologize. Now. I'll wait."
The corridor took on a grey-blue dusk. Yichen lingered at the stair bend, then went back to the art room. Most students were gone; only a few on duty remained. Ziyan's seat was empty; her easel missing.
"She's with Zhou Lu in the art room," a boy wiping the board said without looking up.
The art room door was ajar; low voices came from inside. Yichen stood at the threshold, hand lifted and lowered. Warm yellow lamp light and turpentine drifted through the crack. He heard Zhou Lu say, "We can't just let this go—who knows what else he's got on that camera! The whole school saw it—"
"Stop," Ziyan's voice sounded tired. A brush tapped the palette. "That photo… it's actually good."
Yichen froze, hand still midair.
"Good? What good?" Zhou Lu snapped. "Composition? Light? That's not an excuse. That's your privacy turned into an exhibit. Did he get your consent?"
"I saw it," Ziyan interrupted calmly. "He photographed me—no one knows that moment better than I do." She paused, as if turning over memory. "That day my structure study was falling apart. I'd just argued at home and felt awful. I zoned out staring at the wall. He probably pressed the shutter then."
Outside, Yichen's fingers clenched and loosened. The silence stretched. He knocked gently on the door.
A slit opened; Zhou Lu peered out, suspicious. Seeing him, she scowled. "What do you want?"
"Mr. Zhang asked us to go to the head's office." Yichen's voice was dry; he looked past Zhou Lu toward the room. Ziyan stood by the window easel, holding a brush stained with ochre. Lamp light softened her face; her gaze met his—no longer angry, but complex, an appraisal he didn't understand.
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes dropped to the camera bag at his side, then back to his face. Time measured itself slowly; the only sounds were the smell-and-sound of paint and wood.
"Let's go." After a long pause, she set the brush down and spoke quietly. She walked past the easel and out, and the blue paint tube that had teetered on the desk edge was, without anyone noticing, tucked into her uniform pocket.