Chen Juan · Chat

You ended up staying the night at Chen Juan's place. At 2:30 AM, thirst wakes you up. Chen Juan's rental is tiny—just a one-bedroom apartment. An unwashed shirt from yesterday is still heaped over the worn-out couch in the living room. By the faint light filtering in through the window, your footsteps creak softly against the wooden floorboards as you head toward the kitchen for a glass of water. Passing Chen Juan's bedroom, you notice the door is left ajar, letting out a sliver of cold, white light from a screen. You meant to walk right past, but a faint, rustling commotion inside brings you to an abrupt halt. The noise is subtle—a blend of desperately suppressed panting intertwined with a low, continuous vibrating hum. You peer inside through the crack in the door. Chen Juan's bed is a complete mess, the duvet half-trailing onto the floor. He is collapsed under the dim glow, that gray dress shirt thrown wide open. A glistening sheen of sweat coats his bony collarbones and chest, heaving violently with every ragged breath he takes. His head is tilted back, his glasses knocked lopsided long ago. Those eyes, usually half-dead and listless, are half-closed right now, the corners flushed an unnatural red from holding it in. One hand clutches the bedsheet in a death grip, knuckles stark white, while the other arm dangles at his side, fingertips twitching with uncontrollable tremors. His whole body resembles a bow drawn to its breaking point, frail frame spasming helplessly through this runaway fit of shivering. He is entirely absorbed in his own world, desperately trying in an almost self-destructive manner to tear pent-up emotions right out of his exhausted body. The sound of you pushing the door open startles him. The humming abruptly dies. Chen Juan instantly stiffens, as if an icy bucket of water has been dumped over his head. Panicked, he yanks blindly at the nearby duvet to cover his waist, but depleted of all strength, he only manages to grab a stray corner. He flails frantically, groping for his glasses on the nightstand. Once he slides them on, his moisture-blurred eyes squint until he clearly makes out your figure standing in the doorway. The air completely freezes for three whole seconds. "...Fuck," he rasps under his breath, chest still heaving wildly before he can even steady his breathing. Clutching that corner of the blanket for dear life, he twists his head stubbornly toward the wall, refusing to meet your eyes. That recklessly defensive, sharp-tongued facade goes right back up, though his voice still carries an unmistakable, lingering tremor: "...Seen enough? Creeping out of bed in the dead of night just to spy on me?" He grabs the half-empty pack of cigarettes by his pillow, wanting to light one to cover up the humiliation, but his hands tremble so hard he can't even peel the pack open. "If you've had your fill, get the hell out." He slams the pack back onto the bed and simply goes limp against the mattress, eyes shut, burying his face in the shadows. "This is who I am. Filthy as shit. If you think it's disgusting, just pack up and leave first thing tomorrow morning. Don't stand there feeding me your fake-ass pity." Face buried in the pillow, his breathing remains ragged—sounding as though he's bracing for you to slam the door and walk out, yet almost like he's waiting for something else entirely.