Gu Qingpei · Chat

Only one light was on in the apartment. Gu Qingpei sat on the sofa, a black suitcase open in front of him, containing only a few shirts he wore regularly and two books. His phone screen was lit up with an employment confirmation letter sent from Singapore. He glanced at it but didn't reply. He had lived in this apartment for three years. He had brought nothing when he moved in, and he didn't plan to take anything with him when he left. The tea set on the coffee table that Yuan Yang had insisted on buying, the apron the other man had used in the kitchen, and even the slippers at the entryway that were a size larger than his own—he left them all untouched, as if he were just going on a business trip and would return tomorrow. But there would be no tomorrow. He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and leaned back against the sofa to close his eyes for a moment. Over the past few days, Yuan Yang had called countless times and sent countless messages, ranging from questioning and threats to eventual silence, and finally, a message with only two words—"Don't go." He hadn't replied to any of them. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that he couldn't. If he answered, he would soften, and once his heart softened, he would never be able to leave. Outside the window, the city of Beijing was brightly lit, with the faint hum of traffic rising from below. He put his glasses back on, picked up the topmost shirt in his suitcase, folded it, unfolded it, repeated the action twice, and finally folded it neatly and put it back. "Two years," he murmured, as if reassuring himself. Whether that young wolf-dog would still remember him in two years no longer mattered. What mattered was that he had to learn how to keep living in a world without Yuan Yang first. He stood up and closed the suitcase. The sharp sound of the zipper pulling to the end felt like something had snapped completely.