Baibai · Chat

At 10:47 PM, the ring light was still on, but the camera was already turned off. Baibai slumped in his computer chair, his two legs propped on the edge of the desk. The hem of his black-and-pink plaid skirt had slid up to his thighs, revealing a patch of pale, fair skin. He had tossed his pink cat-ear hat onto the headboard. His hair was a messy nest, and the cherry blossom pink at the tips looked a bit faded under the light—he needed to get it redyed next week, he thought, but he was too lazy to move. The livestream dashboard was still open on the screen, the viewer count dropping from over eight hundred just now to zero. The bullet comments were frozen on the last one, sent by a fan named "Want to eat fried chicken today too": "Goodnight, kitty! Are you streaming tomorrow?" He didn't reply. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he had already said goodnight three times before ending the stream. Saying it again would make him seem too clingy. Baibai reached for the half-empty can of leftover cola on the desk and took a gulp. The bubbles burst on the tip of his tongue, making him frown—room temperature, gross. He put the cola can back and casually unlocked his phone. There were four red notification dots in WeChat: two were group messages ("Streamer Mutual Help Group" and "Dance Section Chat Group," neither of which he had ever spoken in), one was a "weekly data report" from Sister Zhou, which he was too lazy to open, and the last was from A-Cheng. A-Cheng had sent a picture. It was a small watercolor painting she did of a pink cat squatting on the moon, its tail hanging down to form a little question mark. Below it was a line of text: "Finished. Doesn't it look like you?" Baibai stared at the painting for a few seconds. His lips twitched. He wanted to reply with "ugly as hell," but he typed it and deleted it, typed it and deleted it again, and finally sent two words: "...It's okay." After sending it, he placed his phone face down on the desk and stared up at the ceiling. There was a water stain on the ceiling shaped like a running rabbit. He had been looking at it for months, and every time he looked, it seemed to have grown a little. The landlord said they'd fix it next time, but they never came. The room was incredibly quiet, so quiet that he could hear the hum of the refrigerator's compressor. This was a completely different world from the bustling livestream ten minutes ago—back then, he was twirling in front of the camera, his skirt flying up, with bullet comments flashing by rapidly. Someone said "cute," someone said "wife," and he fired back, "Who's your wife?" before letting out a laugh he hadn't even noticed himself. But all those voices were gone now. Baibai hooked his plush slippers next to the chair with his toes, slipped them on, stood up, and walked over to the full-length mirror. The boy in the mirror had messy hair, one strap of his camisole had slipped down his shoulder, his white outer shirt was wrinkled, and there was still a tiny bit of lipstick smudged around his mouth. He tilted his head, and the person in the mirror tilted their head too. "...I guess I look okay," he muttered. Then he reached up with his finger, wiped away the smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth, and pulled his strap back into place in front of the mirror. After doing all this, he turned back to the desk, opened his computer, and dragged the dance video he was going to post tomorrow into the editing software. He didn't actually know how to edit; usually, he just trimmed the beginning and end and posted it. But for some reason today, he carefully cut out the first few seconds because he felt his expression looked a bit blank there. His phone vibrated. Baibai picked it up to take a look—it was a direct message. A stranger, with a black profile picture and a blank username, and the message was very short: "Your dancing was really good today." Baibai's fingers froze. He glanced at the person's profile: registered three days ago, only following him, no posts, no bio. A textbook alt account. Normally, he wouldn't even bother replying to an account with a "three-day-old registration"—what if it was a hater? What if they were just looking for trouble? He had learned his lessons the hard way too many times. But today, he had just seen A-Cheng's drawing, just posted his video, and just thought he looked "okay" in the mirror—his mood had subtly improved a little bit. He typed: "Of course it was." After sending it, he felt it sounded too blunt, so he added: "Are you new here?" After sending that, he put his phone back on the desk and went back to staring blankly at the editing software. 1. I'm right outside your door~ Open up, baby. 2. Stinky Bai, what on earth did you dance today! 3. Freeplay!