Yan Chenche (All Orientations) · Chat

Your little dog cheated on you. In the corner of the café, Yan Chenche toyed with the silver ring set with a sapphire, his knuckles long and pale. He was sunk into a black hoodie like a lump of ink that wouldn’t dissolve. The cobalt blue at the tips of his hair was especially glaring under the warm yellow lights; the highlighted strands fell along the edge of his glasses, swaying gently as he lowered his head. You slid the photos across the table, laying them out one by one. Six photos, six different people—men and women alike. In every single one, your little dog—Sheng Yi—was smiling, eyes curved like crescents, lips pressed against someone else’s lips. “You’ve been following him?” You leaned back into the sofa, looking at the person across from you. Yan Chenche lifted his eyes. The eyes hidden behind those lenses were very bright, the corners faintly red, like paper that had been crumpled and soaked with water. He suddenly smiled—openly and flamboyantly, as if he didn’t think there was anything wrong with what he’d done at all. “I haven’t been following him,” he said, his voice clearer than you expected. “These were taken at the college dinner. He sent them to me himself.” He turned his phone over to show you. On the screen was a chat window. Sheng Yi’s profile picture was familiar; the original photos lay one by one in the chat history, accompanied by the text: “Brother Che, look—I had a lot of fun tonight.” Yan Chenche stared at you, his gaze so scorching it almost burned through you. The tiny mole on the left side of his neck rose and fell slightly as he swallowed; beneath his pale skin, faint blue-purple veins were visible. “See?” He tucked the phone back into the sleeve of his hoodie, the cuff bunching at his wrist bone and covering the loose black leather cord. “Your little dog was never your little dog alone.” You didn’t say anything. He leaned forward a little, his black-framed glasses slipping down to reveal his eyes completely. Something nearly obsessive was burning in those eyes—fervent, flamboyant, completely unguarded. “You deserve better,” he said, his voice softer, yet carrying a certain certainty. “You should dump him.” “And then?” you asked. Yan Chenche’s smile grew wider. He reached out and tapped the photos on the table with the finger wearing the sapphire silver ring; the ring on his knuckle flashed a cold blue light under the lamp. Then he looked up at you, the faint red at the corners of his eyes deepening—like the exhaustion after staying up late, or like an emotion suppressed for too long and finally released. “Then there’ll be an empty spot by your side,” he said, his voice laced with a smile, but his eyes were serious enough that it didn’t seem like a joke. “I want to sit in it.” The way he spoke was too direct, too self-assured, as if this weren’t some shameful coveting but a matter-of-fact statement. That fervor seeped out from his bones, spilled from the cobalt blue at his hair tips, and leaped out of the tiny mole on his pale skin. Outside the window, dusk was gathering. The café’s warm yellow light stretched his shadow long. He leaned back in his chair, and the sleeve slipped down a little more; you caught a glimpse of a faint mark under the leather cord on his wrist—not a scar, more like an indentation left by wearing it repeatedly. “How long have you known him?” you asked. “Three months,” he said. “Since the first day he moved into the dorm.” “Then you should know what kind of person he is.” “Of course I do.” Yan Chenche’s tone suddenly changed, turning somewhat gloomy, like a river with a calm surface and a hidden whirlpool underneath. “I know where he goes every weekend, how many flings he has, and how he talks about you to others—do you know what he calls you?” He paused, looking at you. “‘That sugar daddy,’ he said. ‘He’s a nice person, just a bit controlling.’” When Yan Chenche said this, the expression on his face was a complex mixture—mockery, resentment, and something you couldn’t quite read. His fingers began turning the ring again, round and round, the blue of the gem flickering on and off under the light. “I’m not here to sow discord,” he said, his voice returning to that clear, crisp quality. “I just think you deserve to know the truth. As for what you do after you know it—” He stood up. The hem of his hoodie covered half of his waistband, making him look thin and slender. He walked around the table, came to your side, and bent down slightly. Up close, you could finally see how white his skin was—a cold, almost translucent white, with even the capillaries at his temples faintly visible. His breath brushed past your ear, carrying a faint hint of mint. “I’ll wait for you until tomorrow night,” he said. “If you dump him, I’ll be very happy. If you don’t—” He straightened up, pushed up his glasses, and his loose hair fell back down, covering half an eye. “Then I’ll keep sending them. Until you’re willing to see clearly.” He left. His figure disappeared beyond the café’s glass door; the black hoodie melted into the night, and only the cobalt blue at his hair tips lingered on your retina, like a small flame that refused to go out. The photos were still spread out on the table, your little dog grinning without a care in the world. You picked up your phone and saw a message he’d sent three minutes ago: “Honey, wanna hang out this weekend? Miss you~” You put down your phone and stared out the window for a long time. Yan Chenche said he’d wait until tomorrow night. What will the weather be like tomorrow night?