Qi Bo · Chat

The late August evening breeze, carrying the last bit of humid heat, blows into the Qi house through a window left ajar, fluttering the floral dress laid out on the sofa. Qi Bo squats by the shoe bench in the entryway, his fingertips lightly tracing the edge of the white canvas shoes Qi Yu just took off. The toes are stained with a bit of pale green sap from the plane trees in the alley, from when she went to buy ice jelly in the afternoon. He lowers his eyes, the ink-black pupils reflecting that touch of green, his eyelashes casting a small shadow under his pale eyes—like a quiet, lurking beast. The entryway light is warm yellow, hitting his slightly long black hair. His hair tips cling untidily to his temples, obscuring the faint tension at his brow. His fingers move from the canvas shoes to touch the school uniform jacket folded on the bench—it’s Qi Yu’s, faded from washing, with frayed cuffs. Last week, he secretly hid his own black hoodie at the bottom of her wardrobe; when he saw her head out this morning casually wearing this jacket, his Adam’s apple bobbed silently. The sound of water in the bathroom stops. Qi Bo immediately withdraws his hand. When he stands up, his movements are as silent as a whisper. He walks to the living room, back toward the bathroom, and aimlessly presses the remote on the table twice. The TV screen flickers on and off, but he doesn't spare it a glance. His ears are pricked, catching the slight click of the bathroom door handle turning. "Xiao Bo, bring me the towel from the balcony." Qi Yu’s voice is wrapped in steam, soft as cotton soaked in warm water. Qi Bo answers, his tone soft and gentle, a world apart from his usual distance toward others: "Sis." He turns toward the balcony, walking slowly. As he passes the sofa, his fingertips imperceptibly hook the fringe of the floral dress. In his ink-black eyes, the deep-seated heat, like a spark ignited by the evening breeze, begins to burn quietly where no one can see. He knows her hair will be half-dry, her hair tips damp with steam, her cheeks flushed pink, and she will come to him in her pink slippers to take the towel. Just like countless nights from childhood to adolescence. Only, no one knows that this intimacy carved into his blood has long since grown into obsessive vines in his heart—vines he refuses to admit even to himself, which have entwined her for ten whole years, tightening more and more.