Shen Zhiyu · Chat

【Reaching an Agreement】 The lounge door shuts behind you, completely shutting out the occasional footsteps and the hum of the printer from the hallway. The air conditioning system makes a low blowing sound, and there is a faint smell of disinfectant in the air. Shen Zhiyu stands by the window with his back to you, his shoulders tensed straight like a string pulled to its limit. He doesn't turn around, but the edges of his ears are flushed an abnormal red, showing through the thin layer of skin, even tinting the cold white skin of his nape with a light pink. The hand hanging by his side curls slightly and then releases, his knuckles turning white. When you said you wanted to talk to him, he followed you, silent the whole way, his footsteps so light they were almost inaudible. But now he doesn't seem to know where to look, so he can only stare at the gray sky outside the window. His voice is pitched very low, struggling to maintain a crumbling stability: "President, about today... I am very sorry. It was my dereliction of duty, failing to control my state. If you feel I am no longer fit for this position, I can... submit my resignation voluntarily." The final word ends with a very slight tremble, which he abruptly cuts off. He still hasn't turned to look at you, as if afraid that turning around would expose the embarrassment on his face. Leaning against the door, you watch him silently for a few seconds. His light gray shirt sleeves are rolled up to his mid-forearm, revealing a clean-lined wrist. His collar is buttoned to the very top, as neat as if he were attending a board meeting—as though the person in the restroom just now wasn't him. But you know it was. You saw the way his Adam's apple rolled in the mirror when he tilted his neck back, saw the gasps he couldn't suppress even as he bit his lower lip, and saw the things churning in those eyes that were usually so cold and distant, almost overflowing. Those were not the eyes a secretary should have. "Shen Zhiyu." You call his name in a casual tone, no different from when you order him to organize documents in the office. His shoulders tremble almost imperceptibly, and he finally turns around slowly. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses are slightly red, as if he has just endured and survived some intense emotion. His eyelashes droop low, obscuring most of his pupils. He doesn't speak, just waiting for you to open your mouth, his lips pressed into a very thin line. You straighten up from the door, take two steps toward him, and stop, leaving the distance of an office chair between you. The light from outside falls diagonally, casting a long shadow of him onto the floor. "I don't intend to agree to a single word of what you just said." He is stunned for a moment, his eyelashes lifting to reveal his dark, slightly damp eyes beneath. Looking into his eyes, you continue: "I have no intention of firing you, nor will I tell anyone about this. No one knows your work capabilities better than I do. You are the best secretary I have ever had, and that won't change because of what happened today." He opens his mouth as if to say something, but bites it back. His breathing quickens slightly, his chest rising and falling with a restrained intensity, as if he is using all his strength to process every layer of meaning in your words. You pause, your gaze falling on his hand that clenched and then released. Your tone softens slightly, but remains firm and steady as if stating a fact: "But it's also the first time I've seen you like that. You look... exhausted, like you've been carrying something you can't bear all on your own, refusing to let anyone know." His eyelashes flutter violently, his Adam's apple bobbing. He doesn't deny it. The air falls silent for a few seconds. The hum of the AC continues, and from some floor outside, a faint, blurry telephone ring can be heard. You take another half-step forward. Now there is only an arm's length between you. You can see the tiny blood vessels beneath the skin behind his ear. You slip your hands into your trouser pockets, adopting a casual posture, but your gaze rests seriously on his face. There is no trace of charity or pity in your tone—just an equal, matter-of-fact sincerity: "Shen Zhiyu, I really don't know the specifics of your condition, but you were right about one thing just now—it's not suitable for you to lose control in public. The risk is too high for you, and you know it." He casts his eyes down, as if struck by those words, his fingertips curling slightly into his palm. "So, I'm giving you a choice." You say, your voice neither high nor low, as if discussing a perfectly normal work proposal: "In the future, if you ever need it... you can come to me. Right here, in this lounge. No third party will ever know. I can give you the help you need. Without affecting your work or your reputation, we can make this a solution between us." He snaps his head up. The emotions in his eyes churn too quickly—surprise, panic, confusion, and a faint, cautious hope he dares not confirm. His lips tremble twice, his voice slightly hoarse: "...You mean..." You look at him with a calm gaze, free of any teasing or testing, as natural as saying, 'Tomorrow's meeting is moved up to nine o'clock': "I mean, you don't have to carry this alone. Since I stumbled upon it today, I won't pretend I didn't see it. But this matter stays behind this door. It's up to you to decide whether to accept it. I won't force you." You pause, then add another sentence, your tone carrying a faint, almost imperceptible warmth: "When you've made up your mind, you can come to me anytime. Not as president and secretary, but as... the person who can help you." He stands there, motionless. The breath in his chest seems to stall for several seconds before resuming. The light from outside falls on his profile, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting a thin glint of light. He keeps his eyes downcast, the shadow of his eyelashes falling on his cheekbones, remaining silent for a very long time. Then, he takes a very soft, almost inaudible breath, his voice low and raspy, carrying a trace of a tremble that hasn't fully settled: "...Alright." That single word is very quiet, yet it seems to take all his strength.