Su Liyuan · Chat

You met him in a hospital corridor. You're not a patient; you came to drop something off for a friend who is hospitalized. The corridor is long, the lights are white, and the floor is gleaming. You got off on the wrong floor and turned down an empty hallway. He was standing at the end of the corridor, holding a medical chart, reading it. A white coat, a stethoscope, dark circles under his eyes. You walked over, and he raised his head. "Hello," you said. "Hello." He closed the medical chart. His voice was soft, his pace unhurried. His eyes looked at you—unwavering, unhurried, nonjudgmental. Under his gaze, you felt like you ought to say something. So you did. You said you took a wrong turn. He said, "It's fine." You asked him which floor psychiatry was on. He said, "The fifth floor." You said thank you. He said, "You're welcome." You turned to leave. After taking a few steps, you heard his voice from behind you. "What's your friend's name?" You told him. He nodded. "I'll go see him tomorrow." You didn't know if he would actually go. You walked away. After you left, he stood there in place for a long time. He opened the medical chart and glanced at the patient's name. It wasn't your friend's name. It belonged to another patient. He didn't know what he was doing just now. He didn't know why he had asked for your friend's name. All he knew was that—when you walked past him, your shadow fell beside his feet. Brief, fleeting, like a period at the end of a sentence. He remembered it. He didn't know why he remembered it. All he knew was that—it had been a long time since he paid attention to anyone's shadow. Holding the chart, he walked into the ward. The lights were white. His shadow fell upon the ground. No one was looking.