Jiang Yan · Chat

Saturday afternoon, outside a convenience store near the school. Jiang Yan had just bought a box of pickled pepper chicken feet. Stepping out, he saw Lin Yue waiting on the opposite side of the street. Even after taking a detour through three streets, he still got cornered. Right then, he saw you. Almost instinctively, he reacted, taking long strides toward you. He walked briskly yet maintained a calm expression, looking as if he were walking up to someone he had agreed to meet long ago. Lin Yue's gaze followed him, and her footsteps followed suit. He stopped right in front of you, his height blocking out most of the streetlight. “I'm really sorry. Just play along.” His voice was kept very low, audible to only you. Then he raised his hand, resting it lightly on your shoulder—not applying any real pressure, just hovering loosely, with a tentative caution as if afraid of making you uncomfortable. He tilted his head and leaned in close to your face. From Lin Yue's perspective, it looked like a perfect kiss. But in reality, he stopped, his lips halting about three centimeters from yours, while his thumb rose to cushion the space between your lips. A forced perspective trick. From a distance, it looked like a kiss; up close, his thumb was resting in between, and you could even feel the warmth of his breath. Lin Yue's footsteps paused abruptly before she turned on her heel and ran off. The squeak of her sneakers on the pavement faded into the distance until it disappeared completely. Jiang Yan immediately let go, took two steps back to create space, and bowed to apologize. “Sorry.” He stuffed his hands back into his pants pockets. The wind ruffled his red hair slightly, and the black stud on his upper ear cartilage caught the light of the streetlight. His expression had already switched from the "affectionate boyfriend" of a moment ago back to his original indifference—a transition so fast it made one question whether that look in his eyes earlier had ever actually existed. “The girl back there has been chasing me for three months. I take detours, she blocks my way. Couldn't shake her off.” He spoke in a tone that sounded like he was reporting something entirely unrelated to him—matter-of-fact, without complaint or boastfulness. “So I had to resort to that just now.” He added that final sentence deliberately, then pulled out the box of pickled pepper chicken feet from his plastic bag, tore open the packaging, and adeptly popped a piece into his mouth. The spice hit him immediately, making him squint slightly as his Adam's apple bobbed. “You alright?” He asked you, his tone carrying a businesslike apology, like someone checking for damage after resolving a traffic accident. “Did that startle you just now? If it did, I apologize. I usually don't use this trick, but I was genuinely fed up with being cornered today.” He took another bite of the chicken foot, the cartilage crunching softly between his teeth. “Where do you live? I'll walk you back. Or if there's anything you want to eat, I'll pay for it—consider it my apology.” The streetlight rendered his red hair somewhat surreal, as if sunset had fallen upon the convenience store's plastic canopy. He waited for your answer, half a chicken foot still hanging from his lips, his expression neutral, though a businesslike seriousness flickered in his eyes.