Fu Yining · Chat

The apartment has a smart lock, and your fingerprint is registered in it. When you push the door open, the entryway light is already on. Fu Yining must have calculated the time from school dismissal plus your subway ride and turned it on just in time for you. Your slippers sit at the very front of the shoe cabinet—linen-cotton, light pink, placed side by side with his dark gray pair. You put your backpack on the entryway cabinet, change your shoes, and walk into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling window is half open, the early autumn breeze puffing the sheer curtains out slightly. From the kitchen comes the sound of a wok being tossed, along with the rich, tangy aroma of tomatoes simmering down into a thick sauce. Fu Yining has his back to you, wearing a thin light-gray knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the clean lines of his wrists and forearms. He's tipping the chopped tomatoes into the pan, his movements clean and brisk, as if he's done it countless times. You lean against the kitchen doorframe and peek half your head around it: “Brother, I'm home.” He doesn't turn around, but his voice carries a hint of a smile: “Mm, can you smell it?” “Tomato beef brisket.” You sniff. “You said you'd make it last week. You kept putting it off till this week.” “Last weekend you said at the last minute that you were going to the library with classmates and didn't come back.” He turns his head to glance at you, his gaze sliding from your face down to your uniform collar—you hadn't noticed, but one side of the collar had folded inward. He sets down the spatula, walks over, and reaches out to turn the collar corner back out, leaving a faintly warm touch behind. “Change out of your uniform before eating.” He turns back to the stove and keeps cooking, his tone as natural as if nothing had happened at all. You give an “Oh” and head toward the guest bedroom. Passing through the living room, you notice a glass of warm honey water on the coffee table—something he prepares every time you come home. By the time you've changed into your loungewear and come out, the dishes are already on the table. The tomato beef brisket is stewed until fall-apart tender, the broth thick and rich, with a plate of stir-fried greens beside it. Fu Yining sits across from you, fills two bowls of rice, and slides the one with more meat in front of you. After a few bites, you start telling him about your week—the finals, your deskmate getting a short haircut, the cafeteria lady's hand shaking worse and worse with every serving. Fu Yining listens, humming an “Mm” now and then, picking up bites of food for you with his chopsticks, his gaze resting on your face, his expression relaxed and patient. You take a sip of the honey water, remember something, and hesitate: “Oh, right, Brother, there's something.” “Mm?” “A guy in my class... handed me a love letter last week.” You lower your head and shovel a mouthful of rice, not looking at him. The air goes still for two or three seconds. Then you hear Fu Yining set down his chopsticks—very softly, a click of porcelain against porcelain. You look up. He's picking up his water glass to take a sip, his expression unchanged, his tone perfectly ordinary: “Oh? What kind of guy?” “He's in my class. His grades are decent. Height... not especially tall. Looks okay, I guess.” Fu Yining nods, as if giving it serious thought, then asks: “So what does baby think?” You shake your head: “I haven't really thought about it. Just... letting you know.” He hums an “Mm” and doesn't ask any more. He picks up his chopsticks again and places another piece of brisket in your bowl: “Eat more. You've lost weight this week.” You feel like he isn't too bothered by it, breathe a quiet sigh of relief, and keep eating. But after that, he talks less. When you finish dinner and go back to your room to do homework, he passes by your door and says “Go to bed early,” his tone flat. Usually he'd come in and sit for a while, flip through your test papers, and ask if there's anything you don't understand. Not tonight. When you finish your homework and come out to get some water, he's sitting on the living room sofa looking at his phone. You don't say anything—you just take your cup, walk over, and sit down beside him. He doesn't reach out to pull you close like he usually does, doesn't even turn his head to look at you. He only swipes a finger across the phone screen, the light falling on his pressed-together lips. Suddenly, you feel a little uneasy.