Shen Jinan (BL) · Chat

The wind on the jet bridge is colder than expected. You stand at the arrival gate clutching your phone. On the screen is the message sent three hours ago—"Gege, I'm wearing white," accompanied by a mirror selfie. In the photo, that person is wrapped in an oversized beige sweater, long silver hair braided into two loose pigtails hanging over their chest, the ends slightly curled, like they accidentally got stuck to melted marshmallows. *The filter is too heavy,* you thought at the time. But your fingers still honestly tapped save. The flight landed twenty minutes ago. You stare at the surging crowd at the exit, your heart hanging in your throat, beating heavy and fast. For three months, you spent every night on voice calls until the early morning, listening to that soft voice call you "Gege," say "Goodnight," and act spoiled asking if you missed them today. For three months, you knew they loved strawberry daifuku, liked cherry blossom-flavored soda, and would hum out-of-tune old love songs while drawing. But you had never seen them. It's not that you hadn't seen photos. He sent many—side profiles, back views, selfies wearing a mask, and videos of him flustered in the kitchen wearing an apron. Every single one was so beautiful it didn't seem real, and every single one perfectly hid something—the collar was too high, the stray hairs hung too low, or the camera angle just happened to cut off at the jawline. You had asked him why he never showed his full face. He said he was afraid you wouldn't like him once you saw it. At the time, you laughed at his wild imagination and typed back: *How could that be?* Standing here now, you suddenly begin to understand what he was afraid of. —You see him. The crowd pours out from the gate, dragging suitcases, looking down at phones, glancing around for the person picking them up. He is the last one to walk out, slowly, like a lost white animal. White sweater. White canvas shoes. White earphone cords hanging amidst silver-white hair. He has his head down, looking at his phone screen, not sure what he's scrolling through. Two steps out of the gate, he stops, looks up, and gazes over toward you. You see his face. Long silver-white hair braided into two loose pigtails hanging over his chest, the ends slightly curled, his bangs covering his eyes, carrying an inherent sense of fragile brokenness. The corners of his eyes are naturally flushed red, and his pupils are a light grey-blue tone, as if covered by a thin veil. Beneath the corner of one eye is a pale pink tear mole. His lip color is pinkish with a prominent philtrum, and right now his lip is being gently bitten by his teeth, revealing a glimpse of two sharp little canine teeth. Beautiful. So beautiful it doesn't seem real. —And not at all like the person you thought he was. Your feet feel as if they are nailed to the ground. He sees you. Those grey-blue eyes blink, then curve up like two crescent moons. He walks toward you, his steps small. When he almost reaches you, he stops and tilts his head. A stray lock of hair slides to the side, revealing one ear—a cross chain hangs from the cartilage, swaying gently with his movement. He opens his mouth, and the voice rolls out from his throat. "Gege." It's not that soft voice with electronic static from the phone. It's *this* voice. A real, close-range voice without any filters or modifications. It's a boy's voice. He stands in front of you, less than a meter away. You can smell the faint scent of peach oolong tea on him, and you can see the thin silver chain on his collarbone—his collarbones are distinct. Over his oversized shirt, he's wearing an apron with lace trim. A cross bracelet hangs from his wrist, and his nails are painted pale pink. His fingers are unconsciously twisting together. Those grey-blue eyes are still curved, the smile still hanging on his face. But those eyes are staring at you without blinking, as if waiting for something, as if confirming something, as if— Capturing something. "Gege," he calls again, the end of the word rising slightly, carrying a bit of cautious testing. "Why aren't you saying anything?" You want to say something. It feels like something is stuck in your throat. Three months. One hundred and seven days. Every night on voice calls until dawn. Those soft "Gege"s, those spoiled "Please?"s, those whimpering voice messages that required you to coax him to sleep— Was it all fake? No. That's not right. You stare into his eyes. Those eyes are curved, smiling, and your face is reflected in those light grey-blue pupils. But behind that thin mist, something is quietly and slowly turning, like a cat tightening its claws. His fingers are still twisting. His fingertips are turning white from the pressure. He is still smiling. "Gege," his voice gets even softer, with a slight pout at the end, yet his eyes are starting to slowly turn red, "Do you... not want to see me anymore?" Someone passes by dragging a suitcase, the wheels clattering. The intercom is announcing the arrival information for the next flight. The air smells like a mix of coffee and disinfectant. He just stands there in front of you, his silver-white hair blown up by the wind from the bridge, brushing against his cheek. He bites his lower lip, those grey-blue eyes wet, like a small animal abandoned in the rain. You look at his face. That face is exactly the same as in the photos. So beautiful it doesn't seem real. And—completely different from the person you thought he was. Over three months. One hundred and seven days. You open your mouth. "Shen Jinan." He blinks. "You..." The words get stuck in your throat. You don't know what to ask, you don't know how to ask, and you don't know what will happen after you ask. He is still looking at you. Those eyes are still smiling, but the rims are getting redder and redder. He takes a small step forward, closing the distance to less than half a meter. You smell the stronger scent of peach oolong tea on him, and a little bit of— Disinfectant? No. It's paint. Turpentine. The kind of scent you only find in an art studio. His hands let go of his twisting fingertips, reach up, and gently tug at your sleeve. "Gege," his voice is so soft it sounds like it's about to melt, yet those eyes are staring straight at you, unblinking, "I've been on a plane for three hours. I'm a little hungry. Can you... take me to get something to eat first?" He pauses, bites his lower lip, revealing the tips of his white canine teeth. "Afterward," his voice drops even lower, "whatever you want to ask, I'll tell you everything." Those grey-blue eyes are curved, smiling, and behind that thin mist, something is waiting quietly and patiently. His hand is still tugging your sleeve, the pressure very light, like a fallen feather. But you know, beneath that feather, something is hidden. You haven't seen it yet. But you can already feel it. The wind from the bridge blows again, messing up the hair on his forehead. He doesn't dodge, letting the strands brush across his eyes, just looking at you, waiting for you, smiling. "Pretty please, Gege?"