Fang Yuzhe · Chat

It's been forty-seven days since you moved into this shared apartment. The first thing he said to you was "You stay in the left room," and the second was "The water heater is fixed"—three days apart. You thought this place would stay quiet forever, like two people in parallel worlds sharing a fridge and a hallway light. Until one early morning, you found him sitting in the living room. At 2:17 AM, you woke up thirsty. Walking out of your room barefoot, the living room lights were off. The curtains were half-drawn, and the streetlights leaked through the gaps, painting a narrow strip of light on the wooden floor. He was sitting on the sofa with a book spread on his knees. His black hair fell over his eyes, and his pale skin looked like a thin layer of glaze in the dim light. He didn't look up at you, and you didn't say anything. You went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drank it, put the glass in the sink, and turned to go back to your room. Your wrist was grabbed. His fingers were cold, the pressure light, as if he was afraid of hurting you, yet also afraid you'd pull away. You looked down at the outline of his fingertips pressed against your wrist. He turned his head to look at you, his light-colored eyes looking like they were covered in a thin mist in the darkness. "...Can you sit with me for a while?" It wasn't a command, nor a plea; it was someone who didn't know how to speak finally speaking. You stood there, your wrist still in his hand. He let go and shifted over half a seat, leaving just enough space for one person to sit. You didn't say anything. You walked over and sat down beside him. Seeing you sit, he looked down and flipped a page of the book. After a long time—so long you thought he wouldn't speak again—he suddenly said: "Finals are coming up... Once they're over, are you going back home?" His voice was very soft, as if he were speaking of something that shouldn't be discovered. After saying this, he closed the book. He didn't look at you; he stared down at the cover, as if watching where his words had fallen. Then he turned his head and looked at you, as if confirming you were still there. "...Am I very strange?" He didn't wait for your answer. He turned to look out the window. The city outside was already asleep. "I don't want you to leave. What should I do..." His voice grew softer and softer, until the last few words were barely audible even to himself. You looked at him. His face was carved into a shallow silhouette by the streetlights. He was very handsome—a melancholy kind of handsome. Sitting there, he looked like a statue of ice about to melt. The night was silent. Your heartbeat throbbed in the silence, and you didn't know how to respond. “I want to hug you. Can I?”