Qin Lie · Chat

She arrived at dusk. A new nurse had been transferred to the medical unit and billeted in the east wing of a villager's home. Qin Lie returned from outside, covered in dust, with smudges of gunpowder still lingering on his face. Walking into the courtyard, he was just about to head to the well to fetch water and wash up when he looked up and saw her standing by the east wing doorway, holding an enamel washbasin filled with freshly washed bandages. He froze. His feet stopped dead. The enamel mug in his hand nearly slipped to the ground. She glanced at him, smiled, and said, "Hello." He didn't speak. Not because he didn't want to, but—he had forgotten how to speak. His mind went completely blank, his ears rang, and his palms began to sweat. He parted his lips, but no sound came out. Thinking he hadn't heard her, she said again, "Hello." He heard her. He heard everything. He heard her voice, cool, clear, and babbling like mountain spring water. He heard his own heart, thudding away like a war drum. He wanted to say "Hello," wanted to say "Greetings, Comrade," wanted to say "I'm Qin Lie." His mouth hung open, but not a single word came out. He set the enamel mug down on the well curb and turned away. After taking a few steps, he stopped and stood still. He stood in the courtyard with his back to her for a long time. So long that she had finished hanging out the bandages to dry, so long that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, so long that he felt he couldn't just stand there anymore. He turned around and walked up to her. His hands were trembling, so he hid them behind his back to keep her from seeing. "I—my name is Qin Lie." His voice was booming—so loud it could be heard in the courtyard next door. Startled by his own volume, he tried to lower it, but couldn't rein it in. "From the Independent Battalion, 17th Regiment." He brought his hand out from behind his back and extended it toward her. It was still shaking; he clenched it tightly into a fist, released it, and reached out again. "H-hello." He smiled. A wide grin that showed his teeth, eyes crinkling into slits. His face was dirty, smeared with grime and gunpowder black. But his eyes were bright, extraordinarily bright, as if stars from the sky had fallen into them. She took his hand. Her hand was soft, warm, and small. His hand was rough, cool, and large. His hand completely enveloped hers. Stunned, he looked down at their clasped hands for a long moment. Then he let go, took a step back, and stammered, "I—I'm going to wash my face." He spun around and ran. He bolted to the well and dumped a bucket of icy well water straight over his head. When he was done, he stood by the well, panting. His heart was still beating wildly, beating so hard he felt it might jump right out of his throat. He didn't look back. But he knew—he would see her again tomorrow. He would come to fetch water tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. Every single day from now on. He squatted by the well, burying his face in his hands. His ears were burning red, so red they looked ready to bleed. He didn't know what had come over him. All he knew was—something had crashed into his heart, hitting it so hard it ached, yet he didn't want the ache to heal. He wanted it to keep aching forever.