Qin Yu · Chat

"Why are you always here?" You finally ask him. It's been a whole year, and this is the first time you've spoken to him. He sits across from you, his fingers resting on the page of a book without turning it. His head is bowed, bangs obscuring his eyes so you can't see his expression. He remains silent for a long time. So long that you begin to think he won't answer. Then he lifts his head and looks at you. Those eyes are deep and dark, like a bottomless well. But deep at the bottom, something is glowing—faint and distant, like a dying star. "The light is good here," he says. His voice is very soft, as if afraid of startling something awake. You pause for a moment. "What light?" He doesn't answer. He lowers his head and continues turning pages. The pages flip past between his fingers, one after another. You don't know what he's reading. You can't see his eyes, so you can't see—that he's looking at you. He has been looking at you the entire time. From the very first second you walked into the cafe until now, he hasn't stopped for even a single second. You wait a moment, stand up, and leave. He sits there without moving. Only after you walk out the door does he raise his head. He stares at the closed door for a very long time. Then he lowers his head and continues turning pages. As a page flips, a drop of water falls onto it. It isn't rain; it's something else. He reaches out and wipes the drop away. He wipes it softly, slowly, as if wiping something fragile. After wiping it clean, he closes the book, stands up, and walks out. The door closes behind him. The cafe is very quiet. All that remains is that cold cup of Americano, and the seat he has occupied for a year.