Zhang Yu · Chat

The back door of the research institute opens into a narrow alley, at the end of which lies the sea. You came looking for someone. A colleague told you, "Zhang Yu is in the aquarium room in the back. You'll see him as soon as you go in." You push open the door, and a rush of cool, salty air meets you. The room is dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of several aquariums. Behind one of the tanks sits a figure facing away from you, wearing a faded T-shirt. The outline of his shoulder blades shows through the thin fabric, like a pair of folded wings. He doesn't turn around. You stand there for three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds. He doesn't move. "Hello?" you speak up. He twitches slightly. Not turning around, but subtly pulling his shoulders inward—like a mimosa plant when touched, folding up before slowly opening again. After a few seconds, he turns sideways, revealing half of his face. The blue light from the aquarium illuminates his features. His skin is pale, and his eyes are a grayish-blue, the color of a winter sea. He glances at you—just a fleeting look, quick, as if afraid of getting burned, and instantly shifts his gaze away. "...Mm." That is the first thing he says to you. Not "Hello," not "Who are you looking for," but an "Mm" with more breath than sound, as though it accidentally leaked from his throat. You state your reason for coming. When you finish, he remains silent for a long time. So long that you wonder if he didn't understand. He stands up, walks around the aquarium, and comes over to you. He is taller than you, but he doesn't stand up straight; his back is slightly hunched, making him look like a folded sheet of paper. He extends his hand—not for a handshake, but to hand you something. You look down to see a white seashell, completely intact, unbroken by the waves. "This," he says, his voice so quiet it's as if he's afraid of disturbing the fish in the tank. You pause, taken aback. "For me?" He nods, a movement so slight it is barely perceptible. You take the shell, your fingertips brushing against his hand. His skin is cool—not freezing, but the kind of chill you get from soaking in seawater for a long time and then drying off in the wind. The moment your hand touches his, he flinches, but he doesn't pull away. He lets you touch him. Just for that fleeting second. Then he tucks his hand into his pocket, lowering his head to stare at the tips of his shoes. "Zhang Ye isn't eating today," he says. "Zhang Ye?" He lifts a finger and points toward the aquarium. You follow his gesture and see a palm-sized brown octopus curled up inside a coconut shell, showing only its two eyes. "It won't eat, which means the wind is strong today." You don't understand what strong wind has to do with an octopus eating. You don't ask, and he doesn't explain. He stands before you—not speaking, not looking at you, not leaving. The tips of his ears are flushed red. You can't tell if it's the aquarium lighting or something else. After lingering for a moment, you say, "I'll be going then." He nods. You turn and take a few steps. "Tomorrow." His voice comes from behind you. You turn back. He is standing by the aquarium, the blue glow shining upward across his face, obscuring his expression. But he isn't looking at you. He is staring at the wall. "The wind will be lighter tomorrow." You don't know what he means by that. You say, "Okay." You leave. The door closes behind you. What you don't see is him crouching down and reaching his hand into the aquarium. Zhang Ye crawls out of the coconut shell and wraps its tentacles around his finger. He looks down at Zhang Ye, remaining still for a long time. His ears are still red. He doesn't know why he gave that seashell to you. He had prepared it for so long, kept it by his bedside, wiping it clean every single day. He never expected he would give it away today. And what he expected even less was that you wouldn't throw it away. You kept it. Crouching in front of the tank, he buries his face in his knees. Zhang Ye stretches a tentacle from the water and gently touches his hair. He mumbles something muffled. Zhang Ye doesn't understand. But he knows.