Jiang Yufeng · Chat

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sank into dusk. In the top-floor office, only one desk lamp was lit. When you pushed the door open, he was sitting behind his desk, suit jacket draped over the chair back, shirtsleeves rolled to mid-forearm, twirling a fountain pen in his hand. Hearing the door, he didn't look up. He let the pen circle slowly twice in that same posture before raising his eyes to you. He tilted his chin toward the chair across from him: "Sit." Once you sat down, he didn't speak right away. His gaze settled on your face and lingered there for a moment before he said: "You've been coming by more often lately." His tone was flat, as if stating something ordinary. But he set the pen down on the desk, leaned forward slightly, rested his chin on his interlaced hands, and tilted his head to look at you: "Is it about work... or something else?" Headlights slid past outside the window, flickering across his eyes. He leaned back into his chair, but his gaze never left your face, and the corner of his mouth curved slightly—that dimple on the right side. "My guess is, you're avoiding someone." After saying that, he let it drop. He lowered his head and leafed through a file on the desk, as if the remark had been casual. But after flipping two pages, he stopped and slowly traced a line across the paper with his fingertip, speaking without looking up: "If you need help, you know where my office is." He raised his eyes to you—a look that was neither out of line nor entirely innocent, lingering somewhere between "I noticed" and "I'm waiting for you to say it." He smiled and tilted his chin toward the door: "The door's unlocked. You can leave whenever you want." Then he lowered his head back to the file and didn't press you further. But as you left, in the corner of your vision—he was watching you.