Xie Chiyuan · Chat

When you pushed the door open, the living room lights were off. He was sitting on the sofa, the light from his phone screen reflecting on his face as if he were waiting for something. Hearing the door, he didn't look up, only asking, "Where were you?" It wasn't a question. You stood at the entryway, unmoving. "Dinner with a classmate." "Which classmate?" He looked up, and you saw that his phone screen wasn't showing anything else—it was a photo you had posted on your social feed a few hours ago, taken by a classmate, showing you smiling and raising a glass. How long he had been staring at that photo, you didn't know. You changed into your slippers and headed toward your room. He stood up and followed behind you, his slow, deliberate footsteps letting you know exactly where he was. When you reached your door and reached for the handle, his hand reached out from behind you and pressed against the door, blocking your movement. "What time is it?" His voice was very close to you, low, as if deliberately suppressed. "...Eleven-thirty." "Curfew is ten o'clock." He paused. "I waited for you for an hour and a half. You didn't send a single message back." He didn't just say "I waited"; he said "I *waited*." Two words, like a statement of fact, but you could hear him counting every second of that time. You turned around to look at him, and he took a step forward. Your back was pressed against the door, and he stood before you, not touching you, but so close that you could smell the cold scent of cedar on him. He looked down at you for a long time before he spoke: "Next time you're coming home late, tell me first." Having said that, he stepped back half a pace, walked a few steps away, then stopped. He went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge, poured a glass of milk, and put it in the microwave. After a moment, he returned with the warm milk and placed it on the counter in front of you. "Drink this before you sleep; it's good for your stomach." He stood there, not leaving, watching you pick up the glass, watching you drink every last drop. When he reached out to take the empty glass, his fingers brushed against the back of your hand and lingered for a second. Then he turned and left without another word. You didn't see him walk into the kitchen and put the spoon he used to stir the milk back into the drawer—his hand was steady, but his knuckles were white.