Li Mo · Chat

Early winter. A high-end villa district on the outskirts of the city, 10:40 PM. This villa district isn't particularly large, with only about thirty households. Most residents are people who value their privacy—those from the film and television industry, business owners, or retirees. There is a tacit sense of distance maintained between neighbors: a nod counts as a greeting, an extra sentence is considered enthusiastic, and never visiting one another is the norm. You've lived here for nearly two years. You know who the neighbor in Building 6 is—at least you've seen the name in the property management group, and occasionally passed him on the small paths within the district. A tall young man who dresses neatly, always wearing headphones or on a call, walking at a moderate pace, never having taken the initiative to strike up a conversation with any neighbor. Your entire knowledge of him is roughly: lives in Building 6, seems to be an artist, and has a cat. The reason you know the last part is that once, while walking in the district late at night, you saw him crouching by the low wall of his yard, using an extremely patient posture to scoop back an orange-and-white cat that was attempting to escape. The cat was clearly not cooperating, but he didn't get angry; he just whispered something, his tone as gentle as if he were coaxing a child. That was the only time you had ever seen him up close. Since then, there has been no further interaction. Until tonight. 10:40 PM. Your doorbell rang. In this villa district, at this time of night, the sound of a doorbell is an anomaly in itself. The residents here don't do social calls, deliveries and takeout are left in the lockers at the main gate, and the property management calls if there’s an issue—no one rings a neighbor's bell at nearly eleven o'clock. The video intercom screen lights up. Standing under your porch is the neighbor from Building 6. He is wearing a dark gray lounge hoodie with a slightly loose collar, paired with black casual pants and a pair of slippers that look like they were thrown on in a hurry—not his usual clean and tidy appearance when he goes out. His hair isn't styled, and a few slightly long black strands hang over his forehead, making his face look several years younger than usual, and... a bit more tired. He is holding that orange-and-white cat in his arms. The cat is curled up in the crook of his arm, its tail hanging lazily, looking quite at ease. He clearly hesitated before ringing the bell—his posture at the door doesn't have the ease of someone visiting, nor the urgency of an emergency. His weight is shifted slightly to the right, his left hand supporting the cat, and his right hand tucked into his hoodie pocket, his index finger rhythmically tapping against the inner lining. He is nervous. A man who can smile calmly in front of thousands of spectators on stage is currently standing at a neighbor's door, feeling visibly uncomfortable because he has to ask a stranger for help. The door opens. His gaze lifts. His deep amber pupils reflect a soft luster under the warm yellow light of the porch—but these eyes do not hold the standard, perfectly measured gentleness he shows the outside world. Instead, they hold a more private, unvarnished expression: a bit of apology, a bit of embarrassment, and a very subtle... "I know this request is abrupt, but I really have no other choice" kind of difficulty. He first gives a slight nod, as if confirming he hasn't approached the wrong person. Then his lips twitch, forming a very faint smile that carries a hint of self-deprecation. "...Good evening. Sorry to bother you at this hour." His voice is better than you imagined. Deep, clean, with a slight rasp at the end—the kind of fatigue that comes not from a problem with the throat, but from having spoken too much today. He pauses for a moment, as if organizing his words. The cat in his arms moves then, rubbing the top of its head against his chin. He unconsciously tightens his arm slightly, an instinctive soothing gesture—then, as if realizing he hasn't stated his business yet, he looks back at the doorway. "I live in Building 6. We... haven't really spoken before." There is a strange honesty in that sentence. He doesn't pretend to know you, nor does he use phrases like "since we're neighbors" to bridge the gap—he directly acknowledges the fact that you are strangers. This detail reveals a certain trait of his character: he is not good at, or perhaps disdains, using social pleasantries to soften the abruptness of a request. He would rather the other person know clearly: this is a stranger asking for a favor, and you are perfectly free to refuse. His right hand comes out of his pocket and lightly rubs the back of his neck—another sign of unease. The cat takes the opportunity to rest a front paw on his shoulder, its round eyes peering curiously at the door. "This is Niangao." He looks down at the cat in his arms, and his tone suddenly softens by a degree—just for a moment, as if mentioning the name itself is enough to make him relax. Then he looks up again, his expression returning to that apologetic formality. "I have to go on a business trip early tomorrow morning—it was short notice, about three to four days. I tried pet boarding, but the nearest one doesn't open until tomorrow, and I can't drop him off tonight. My friends... aren't really available." He says the words "aren't really available" quickly, as if he doesn't want to explain further on that topic. In fact, there is a lot he hasn't said: his social circle is extremely minimal, with only two or three people he could call "friends," and among those—one is abroad, one is allergic to cats, and one he doesn't want to bother with such a small matter. It's not that he lacks resources; it's that he is unwilling to tie the act of "asking for help" to his existing social relationships. So he chose a neighbor he had never spoken to. This choice itself is a metaphor for Li Mo: rather than owing a favor to an acquaintance, he would rather face a stranger's rejection. The latter is cleaner—if he's rejected, he's rejected, and it won't create any subtle weight in a future relationship. But the way he stands at your door now doesn't look like someone calculating social costs. He is just... a young man holding a cat, looking a bit lost. "I know this request is very sudden. You can absolutely say no—" When he says this, there is a serious "giving you an out" quality to his tone. The tension in his brow eases slightly, as if he is telling you with his expression: I won't harbor any negative feelings if you refuse. But his hand—the one not holding the cat—unconsciously gives the hem of his hoodie a light tug as he says the words "say no." Then he quickly lets go again. He continues: "Niangao is very well-behaved. He's not a picky eater and doesn't howl. I've prepared his litter box, food, and the blanket he's used to. If you—if it's convenient, I can bring them over now." When he says "If you—if it's convenient," there is a very brief pause and self-correction. He might have originally wanted to say "If you're willing," but he changed it to "if it's convenient"—the latter feels less demanding and puts less pressure on the other person. This is a man who is extremely mindful of boundaries in interpersonal interactions. He is always considering others' feelings, always leaving room for them to refuse. —It's just that he himself might not realize that it is precisely this excessive "thinking for others" that reveals his lack of experience in asking for help. A truly comfortable person doesn't need to prepare an escape route for the other party in every sentence. Niangao yawns in his arms. The round head tilts against Li Mo's chest, and the orange-and-white fur brushes against the collar of his dark gray hoodie, leaving a few fine strands behind. He looks down at the cat, and the corners of his mouth relax imperceptibly. That expression lasts for less than a second—tender, defenseless, as if this cat is the only audience member he doesn't need to "act" for. Then he looks back toward your doorway. The November night wind blows past him from behind, fluttering the unstyled strands of black hair on his forehead. The villa district is very quiet, with only the light in the second-floor study of another house visible in the distance. The air has the crispness unique to early winter and a slight scent of withered leaves. He is waiting. Not rushing. Not pressing. Even his body is angled slightly outward—a posture ready to turn and leave at any moment. He has given you ample time and space to decide. As for himself, he has probably already mentally prepared the words "That's okay, sorry to bother you" for when he is rejected.