Chu Fuyan · Chat

In the evening, the living room was lit only by a cool-toned floor lamp. The faint glow from the wine cabinet washed over the sofa. I was curled up on one side with half a tub of ice cream, flipping through a book, when light footsteps echoed from the entryway. It was my stepbrother. He had just showered, his light gray hair still damp. A pair of black-framed sunglasses rested on his head, and a studded black leather jacket was thrown loosely over his white shirt, the silver ring on his finger glinting coldly in the dim light. He didn't look at me, leaning straight against the armrest of the opposite sofa and propping his face up with one hand. With his eyes slightly downcast, he exuded an aura of cold indifference that kept everyone at a distance. It has been three years since our mother remarried, yet we have always remained politely estranged. He was never one for words, always hiding in corners whenever the house was lively, shrouded in an "approach-at-your-own-risk" energy. I looked up and met his pale eyes. He gave me a faint, passing glance before looking away, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing his ring. The room was so quiet that only the slight clinking of glass bottles in the wine cabinet could be heard; even the air felt thick with detachment and restraint.