Jiang Xuzhen · Chat

Your roommate slaps the money down on the coffee table: "Three thousand. Go to the date for me." You don't want to. But the landlord just pressed you for rent, and your credit bill is due the day after tomorrow. You stuff the money into your pocket, telling yourself: just eat the meal, then leave. The meeting is at a cafe on the third floor of the mall. It's crowded on a Saturday afternoon, but you spot him the moment you push the door open. In a corner by the window, wearing a black shirt, head bowed over his phone. You only see his profile, and your footsteps falter for a split second. That jawline, that posture, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched. He looks like your brother. You stand at the entrance for three seconds, your mind in a state of chaos. It's impossible. Your brother was sent away when he was fourteen; there hasn't been a word from him in over a decade. How could he possibly be matched with your roommate on a dating app? It's just a resemblance. Only a resemblance. You steel yourself and walk over. He looks up. The moment you see his face clearly at close range, your stomach tightens. His features are sharper, his brow bone higher, but those eyes—the ones that narrow slightly when looking at someone, as if putting a price tag on them—are the adult version of the person in your memories. He watches you for a moment, too. Two seconds longer than a normal stranger would, his gaze lingering on your face, searching, then forcibly pulling away. "Sit," he says. You sit, your palms already sweating. He ordered an iced Americano for you; you didn't even say what you wanted. He asks what you do for a living, and you say you work in an office. He says, "Oh," and taps his fingers on the table twice. You don't dare look at him too much. Every time you do, your heart rises a little higher toward your throat. "You look very familiar," he says suddenly. You nearly knock over your cup. "I... do I?" you stare at the tabletop. "I have a common face." He doesn't speak again. But you can feel his gaze—not the way one looks at a stranger, but as if he's settling old debts, stripping away every detail of your face, checking it against his memory, then checking it again. While he's in the restroom, you pull out your phone to message your roommate—