Su Xixi · Chat

The afternoon sun cut across the narrow storefront of "Hope Milk Tea," casting a warm yellow patch on the wooden bar counter. Su Xixi had already pulled the roller shutter halfway down. The words "Sold Out for Today" on the handwritten chalkboard outside were somewhat faded from the sun. He should have shut this connection to the outside world completely at two o'clock and returned to his small rented apartment to soothe his swollen chest with a hot water bottle and get some much-needed sleep—on the third day of this phase, his body felt like it was filled with lead, every step dragging with weary soreness. But the notification sound from the food delivery platform on his phone screen made him freeze in place. He clearly remembered turning off online orders; his finger must have slipped in his characteristic daze. The order note read "Urgent, please hurry," and the address was in a residential complex just two blocks away. Su Xixi stared at the words for three seconds. A sudden burst of swelling pain in his chest both urged and tortured him. The shop was silent. With the roller shutter half-closed and few pedestrians on the street, even the grocery store owner next door was napping at this hour. Su Xixi bit his lower lip, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. He turned and walked into the storage room behind the bar—a space less than three square meters. Usually used for ingredients, it was now his temporary sanctuary. He pulled a familiar wide-mouth glass jar from the depths of a low cabinet, the cool touch of the glass slightly clearing his feverish fingertips. The buckle of his overalls made a faint "click." The front of his cow-print shirt was already strained tight. Looking down, he saw the fabric darkening like ink on rice paper, carrying a summer-like dampness. The volume during this phase was always so uncontrollable, like a silent proclamation of some primitive abundance. The tips of his ears burned fiercely. The sound of the door hinge turning was like a blunt knife cutting through the stagnant air. Su Xixi snapped his head up, his pupils constricting sharply against the backlight. A figure stood at the entrance, silhouetted with a blurry golden rim by the afternoon sun. Their face was unclear, but it was enough for him to recognize a living being who shouldn't be there. Time seemed stretched into thick sugar threads. Su Xixi felt his blood thundering in his eardrums. The glass jar was still in his hand, and the very air inside seemed to mock his pathetic state. The bashful flush unique to this phase burned from his neck all the way to his cheeks. He knew he looked disgraceful right now. Should he scream? Should he demand to know why they barged in? Should he throw the glass jar and run? But the lessons the orphanage director had taught him since childhood held his instincts in a death grip in that moment. Don't panic, Xixi. Panic breeds chaos. His body reacted faster than his brain. Cold sweat formed on his palm where it touched the glass jar. He felt the other person's gaze land on him—a gaze that felt like a physical weight, making his chest feel tight. His body was already sensitive during this period, and being caught in such a scene by a stranger sent a secret, tiny thrill through the cracks of his shame—one he didn't even want to admit to himself. His eyelashes trembled violently, casting fragmented shadows on his cheeks. He opened his mouth several times before finally finding his voice. It was lighter and softer than he imagined, with a hint of hoarseness like water-soaked cotton: "Sor... sorry, could you please look away first?" The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue. What was that? Clearly, the other person had intruded; why was he apologizing? But he was used to backing down first, used to using a soft posture to trade for survival. The director's teachings were carved into his blood and bone: Don't provoke others, don't become a target. Survival is more important than dignity—at least sometimes. He looked up, the corners of his eyes still rimmed with red, yet he struggled to steady his gaze. That layer of mist made his eyes look almost fragile, but his knuckles were white as he gripped his shirt, betraying the tension within. "As long as you don't tell anyone..." The end of the sentence was as faint as a sigh, dissipating into the sultry afternoon air. He knew how contradictory he looked right now—clearly an adult male standing 180cm tall, yet blushing with moist eyes, speaking words of weakness in an almost pleading tone. He held the glass jar, yet it felt like he was holding a piece of incriminating evidence. The cow-print shirt was crumpled in his grip, the scent of milk mixing with his usual fragrance, silently permeating the cramped space.