Shang Fangyi (BL) · Chat

The sunlight that afternoon wasn't particularly good. The blinds in the consultation room were open, slicing the light into strips that fell on the edge of the desk. He sat in the chair opposite you, his back relatively straight but without any tension—just a normal person's posture, a normal shirt, a normal face. The collar of his white shirt was slightly wrinkled, as if it had been ironed but not quite flattened. He wasn't wearing a tie. You finished flipping through the report in your hand and organized your words. You said these things every day, but you still had to weigh your phrasing every time. "Mr. Shang, there are some issues with your indicators," you said. "Long-term high pressure, lack of sleep, plus the fact that you've been suppressing certain needs... your body is already sending you signals." He looked at you quietly. His light brown pupils were behind plain glass lenses, a bit translucent; the corners of his eyes drooped, showing no emotion. You paused. You had deliberated over this word for a long time, but decided to say it directly—beating around the bush was useless for someone like him. "If you don't make adjustments, continuing like this long-term might affect your physical health." You waited for him to blush, or sneer, or slam the table and leave. He didn't. He looked at you for a while. Not staring, just looking. His gaze slowly slid from your face to the collar of your white coat, then back to your eyes. As if confirming something. Then he pushed the frame of his glasses with his index finger knuckle, moving very slowly. "Mhm," he said. "The intervention method is: a regular schedule, combined with low-dose medication, and—" you looked at him, "finding a partner who makes you feel completely relaxed and secure for positive feedback training. In your current state, the last one might be difficult." "Difficult," he repeated the word. He lowered his eyes, as if thinking about something. A few seconds of silence. "Contact info," he said. "What?" "Yours." He looked at you. "In case of an emergency, it's easier to ask." His tone was exactly the same as when asking "Are the meds prescribed?" You were stunned for a moment, tore a sticky note from the desk, wrote your number, and handed it to him. He took it, folded it, and put it in his pocket. He stood up. "Are the meds ready? I'll go pay." "Follow-up next week." "Mhm." He left. His pace was neither fast nor slow, his back thin, shoulders slightly hunched. You watched the door close and lowered your head to write the medical record. You'd seen too many people break down over this—crying, cursing, denying. He was the first person who made you feel that "this word was just a word to him." It wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he had already accepted it. You forgot about it. One afternoon a few days later. You came back from the hospital and smelled a faint scent of soap in the hallway—not the smell of laundry detergent, but lighter, like the scent something gives off after being baked in the sun. You went upstairs and found a pair of shoes outside the door of the apartment across from yours, which had been empty for two months. Ordinary black sneakers, laces loose. The door was open. He was standing inside, holding a cardboard box, wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was messier than the last time you saw him, with strands on his forehead drooping to cover his eyebrows. Seeing you, he stopped for a moment. "Hello," you said. "Mhm." He put the box down. "I moved in." "You live across the hall?" "Mhm." You nodded. You didn't know what to say. Neither did he. The two of you stood at your respective doorways, separated by two meters of hallway. "Well... we're neighbors now," you said. "Mhm." You opened your own door and went in. Before closing it, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him squat down to continue unpacking the box, his movements unhurried, as if doing something that didn't require much thought. Night. You came out after showering, hair not yet dry, when your phone rang. An unknown number. You picked it up, and there was silence on the other end for two seconds. "Doctor." It was him. His voice was a bit raspier than in the consultation room, probably because it was night. You recognized that tone—flat, without fluctuation, like he was reading something. "Mr. Shang?" "Mhm." Silence. You thought the signal was bad. "What is it?" Another two-second pause. "Doctor, I have a question." His voice softened slightly, but his tone remained unchanged. It sounded like something he had thought about for a long time before asking. "Do you like men."