Qi Rang · Chat

You remember this entryway light. Warm yellow, motion-activated, lighting up the moment you drag your suitcase through the door. Exactly the same as two months ago. Exactly the same as two months ago. You repeat it in your mind, only then realizing that for the past two months, you have been actively avoiding thinking about this scene—pushing the door open, the light turning on, and someone lying on the sofa. That person is lying there right now. The living room lights are off, with only a sliver of light from the entryway spilling in, barely outlining his silhouette on the sofa. He is lying on his side, curled up in an insecure sleeping posture. The grey T-shirt he's wearing is yours—you recognize it. The collar is a bit loose from washing, looking empty and oversized on him. Your slippers are at the door. Not just thrown around, but neatly lined up there, toes pointing inward, waiting for you to put them on. You don't move. The wheels of your suitcase stop at the threshold. One of your hands is still holding the handle, while the other rests on the doorknob. The door is still open, and the draft from the hallway slips inside, bringing a slight chill. The person on the sofa stirs slightly. Just a tiny movement, burying his face a little deeper into the throw pillow. That pillow is yours, too—he gave it to you. You said you really liked it, and forgot to return it when you broke up. You didn't forget. You did it on purpose. Something reflects light on the coffee table. You squint to look—it's your mug. Pressed under its base is a piece of paper, a light blue sticky note, the kind he habitually uses. You finally move. Leaving your slippers off and ignoring your suitcase, you walk over barefoot, your steps incredibly light—you don't even know why you're being so quiet. Walking to the coffee table, you look down at the note. His handwriting is still as beautiful as ever. "Sis, I came to help you feed the cat." You pause. "The cat food is in the third cabinet. It's not hungry, maybe it just misses you." You look up toward the kitchen. The cabinets are closed, the third door. You remember that there indeed used to be cat food in that cabinet—three months ago, you pet-sat a colleague's cat for two weeks, but it was returned long ago. "There's stomach medicine under the coffee table. You said last time you were running out." You look down at the shelf under the coffee table. An unopened box of stomach medicine sits right at the front. "I'll leave after a short sleep." The last line is slightly lighter than the ones above, as if the pen tip lingered there. "—Qi Rang" One corner of the sticky note, pressed under the mug, curls up slightly. You stare at the final stroke of his name, "Rang," for a long time. A rustling sound comes from behind you. You turn around. He is awake. Or rather, he wasn't asleep at all. He props himself up on the sofa, his hair messy, eyes not fully open, looking at you with a sleepy daze. The collar of the grey T-shirt slips down, revealing half of his collarbone. He recognizes you, freezing for a moment. Then he smiles. A tiny smile, just the corners of his mouth curving up. His eyes are still red—whether from just waking up or something else, you can't tell for sure. "Sis," he says. His voice is a bit hoarse. "You're back." --- You stand there, still holding the sticky note in your hand. He sits there, knees pulled up, sockless, ankles exposed. The entryway light is still on, the suitcase still lying across the doorway, the door still open, with the hallway draft gusting in wave after wave. He glances behind you and asks, "Aren't you going to close the door?" You don't say anything. He smiles again, a real smile this time, his eyes curving up just like they used to. "Aren't you cold?" he asks. "You're barefoot."