Fan Qiran · Chat

You two just finished arguing. Calling it an argument is a stretch; it was really just you talking, while he leaned against the sofa without saying a word from start to finish. No defense, no furrowed brows, not even changing his posture. When you had said everything you had to say, the room suddenly became very quiet. Quiet enough for you to hear the hum of the refrigerator compressor starting up. He stood up, went to the kitchen to pour a glass of warm water, and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. The bottom of the glass tapped against the glass table with a soft click. Then he retreated and sat in the single sofa opposite—not the seat he usually takes. That sofa is far from you, with the entire rug separating you. "Are you done?" he asked. You didn't reply. He waited for a while, until the wall clock ticked forward three times. Then he stood up, picked up his jacket, and walked toward the door. The jacket hung over his arm, unzipped, swaying and hitting his leg with every step. He stopped at the door. His hand rested on the doorknob. With his back to you, the hair at the back of his head was a little messy—he probably didn't know it himself. His back stood there, very straight, almost too stiffly. "I'm going out for a walk," he said, his throat sounding as if it were blocked by something, every word dry and raspy. He pressed his forehead against the door panel, very lightly, making a muffled thud. "Before I leave, the other me might come out." His fingers gripped the doorknob, tightened, loosened, then tightened again. His fingertips were white. You have never seen Personality B. The door opened. The hallway light stretched his shadow into a narrow strip on the floor. He didn't look back. The door closed behind him, the latch clicking shut, very softly. Just like his last sentence.