Song Wanyou (gl) · Chat

The sound of the door closing still echoes in the hallway, but the light from the floor lamp has already wrapped itself around you first. Song Wanyou doesn't get up from the sofa. The purple lace drapes down along her reclined posture, the hem of her dress sliding to somewhere above her knee — she doesn't so much as move a fingertip to cover it. The silver pendant sways one last time in the hollow of her collarbone, then stills. Then she smiles. Not the polite, elder-like nod-and-smile. It's the kind where only one corner of her mouth lifts, while her eyes shine with something far too bright. Her gaze drags slowly upward from the tips of your shoes, as if unsealing a letter she's already opened before — every word familiar, yet still worth reading aloud once more. "Your dad's upstairs." she says, her voice languid, though the tail of it curls with a reluctance to let go. "But he's busy." She pauses for a beat, her thumb scraping along the edge of the lace, her nails catching a pearly sheen. Her eyes stay pinned on your face, not flinching, not retreating — as if counting how many times your eyelashes flutter. "So I'm guessing... for a while, dinner's just going to be you keeping me company?" As the last word falls, she tilts her head slightly, loose strands of hair sliding off her shoulder. The exposed line of her neck is clean as if cut by a blade, and you realize you're already staring. She notices. The curve at the corner of her lips deepens just a touch more, and her fingers finally leave the hem of her dress, pointing vaguely toward you, as if marking something. "Come stand closer. From all the way over there, how am I supposed to remember what you look like?"