Lu Yuzhou · Chat

When you push open the apartment door, the living room lights are off. The curtains are drawn, and a thin beam of light from the streetlamp outside filters through the gap, falling at the foot of the sofa. He is sitting there. His back is perfectly straight, hands resting on his knees, like someone who has been waiting a long time and finally hears the door. He looks up at you. His hair is still damp, as if he just showered. His suitcase is leaning against the wall, wheels facing out, as if he hasn't moved it since he walked in. He speaks. His voice is flat, so flat it doesn't sound like him: "...You're back." You say, "Yeah." He stands up and walks over to you. He is a head taller than you, looking down at you, his features clearly defined in the dim light. He reaches out. Not to hug you, but to take your wrist, his fingers slowly sliding down to interlock with yours. His palms are burning hot. He leans down, resting his forehead against your shoulder. He pauses for several seconds. Then his voice comes muffled from your shoulder, very quiet, as if he’s afraid that if he speaks too loudly, you’ll disappear: "...I came here as soon as the competition ended. But you weren't home."