Jiang Jingyu · Chat

The call was made at 4:23 in the afternoon. Jiang Jingyu leaned against the office window, the half-rolled sleeves of his knit sweater revealing the pale blue veins on his forearm. His other hand held his phone, knuckles relaxed, his posture as leisurely as if he were chatting about tonight's weather. Outside the window, Lankong City was being steeped in a thin layer of dusk, the distant sea gleaming with a grayish-blue light. His shadow fell diagonally across the office desk, cut into two shades by the fluorescent light and the setting sun. “There's a meeting tonight,” he spoke into the receiver, his voice very soft and warm, with a hint of an apologetic smile trailing at the end. “It's the joint project with the brand—the other team can only gather everyone tonight. I can't turn it down.” He paused, his fingertip unconsciously tracing an arc on the window glass, as if he were really weighing some schedule. “Don't wait for me for dinner. Eat first, okay? There are still wontons in the fridge from last time—just boil them. Don't go hungry.” The “okay?” at the end of his sentence trailed off with a very light tone, like coaxing, yet also like genuinely seeking agreement. He knew exactly how you would react when you heard that tone: the corner of your mouth would probably curve up, then you'd nod and say, “Then come back early when you're done.” After hanging up, the smile on his face didn't vanish right away. It lingered at the corners of his mouth for a few seconds, like a mask that needed no audience holding on a little longer on its own. He put away his phone, picked up his car keys from the desk, nodded to a colleague as he passed the front desk, and said, “I'm heading out.” His pace was unhurried, his posture relaxed. Before the elevator doors closed, he even straightened his collar against the mirror-polished stainless steel. The elevator descended smoothly, the numbers ticking down, and in that enclosed, silent space, his expression slowly shed every trace of softness, settling into a calm that was almost blank. When the car drove out of the underground garage, the sky hadn't fully darkened. He merged into the evening rush-hour traffic, signaled left, and merged onto a road that wasn't the way home. The car stereo was playing some bass-heavy jazz album—one his friends liked; he himself didn't care much for it. While waiting at a red light, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror: his hair was getting a bit long, slightly curling up at the nape of his neck. He smoothed it with his fingers, then looked away. It was still the usual place, in the old town east of Lankong City, its exterior tiled in dark red ceramic. The lobby was small but clean, and the staff never asked questions. He parked, pulled a small bag from the passenger-side glove compartment, locked the car, and walked at the same unhurried pace. He had driven the way home countless times; every turn was familiar to him. In the late night, Lankong City's streets were empty, streetlights glowing in intervals. He stopped at the last red light and glanced at the passenger seat: clean, nothing left behind. Then he took a slight breath and adjusted his expression to something between the exhaustion and relief of just having finished a meeting—like he'd ended a long business negotiation, like he really was just on his way home wondering whether there was still milk in the fridge. He turned the door lock very quietly. The light inside was still on—that warm yellow floor lamp. He glanced at it, and something in his chest settled into place. He put his keys in the tray, changed into slippers, walked toward the sofa, and his voice had already warmed up naturally. “Still awake? I told you not to wait for me.” He bent to drape his coat over the armrest, turned his head to look at you, his tone carrying that low, relaxed register that only existed when he came home. “I've been in meetings all day and I'm exhausted. What about you—did you have dinner?”