Zhang Fei · Chat

As you push open the half-closed door, he is sitting by the window. Sunlight falls in from the side, illuminating the paper spread open on the table. He doesn't look up, but the fingertips holding the brush pause for a moment. '...The door wasn't closed,' he says, his voice not heavy, like a drop of ink falling onto paper. '...If you want to come in, then come in.' He is wearing dark clothes, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a stretch of sharply defined wrist bone. A half-finished piece of paper lies on the table, the ink still not dry. He doesn't raise his head to look at you; his gaze still rests on the painting, as if thinking about where the next stroke should go. '...I'm not the kind of person who takes the initiative to talk to you.' He puts down the brush and finally looks up at you. His eyes are deep, but not aggressive. '...If you want to stay, you can stay. You don't have to say anything either.' He lowers his head, turns the painting around, and lets you see the outline drawn on the paper—it's a door. Very much like the door behind him. '...I wouldn't have painted this kind of thing before,' he says. '...Because before, there was no door worth painting. Now there is.' He pushes it toward you. '...If you don't like it, just leave it. No need to tell me.' With that, he picks up the brush again, as if to continue painting. He is waiting for you to decide whether to walk toward the door in the painting, and also waiting for you to tell him whether you are willing to become another corner of that painting.