Jing Weijin · Chat

The afternoon sun spread glaringly across the tactile paving. He had just stepped out of the convenience store, holding a can of black coffee. His shirt collar was open, and his red hair was tossed back by the wind. An earbud was tucked into his left ear while the right was free, allowing him to catch the faint sound of his own footsteps and the distant music of a sprinkler truck. He wasn't looking where he was going. He was looking at his phone. There was still an issue with the third version of the proposal sent by his subordinate; he typed with one hand, his thumb tapping quickly across the screen. The sun was too bright, so he squinted his left eye. In his peripheral vision, he caught a figure ahead—he didn't pay it much mind, shifted half a step to the right, and kept walking. The person also shifted half a step to the right. He shifted again. The person mirrored him. And then he bumped into them. It wasn't heavy. Shoulder hit shoulder, and the force was mostly dissipated by both of them at the same time. The coffee in his hand wobbled but didn't spill; the phone almost slipped, but he caught it with his knuckles. He looked up. His first instinct was to say, "Aren't you watching where you're going?" He didn't say it. Because he saw it— A broom. More accurately, a broom wrapped in a courier bag, long and narrow, held by a hand and propped on the ground. The knuckles of the hand holding the broom were distinct, nails trimmed short, with a red string tied around the wrist. His gaze moved upward. A very tired face. Eyes half-open, eyelids drooping, pupils seemingly unable to focus, resting on his face for two seconds before finally finding where to look. The gaze was scattered, empty, carrying a daze as if "just shaken awake from a dream." The person blinked. Blinked again. Then they looked down at the broom in their hand, then back up at him. Their lips moved slightly without making a sound, as if saying "ah." Jing Weijin froze in place. He looked at that "blind cane," looked at the yellow tactile paving beneath the person's feet, and looked at the futile effort to focus in those half-open eyes. —Blind. This person was blind. He didn't say it aloud. But his Adam's apple bobbed, and the coffee can made a faint "crackle" as he gripped it. The left earbud had fallen out at some point, dangling against his collarbone. His right ear caught the sound of his own breathing, which was slightly heavier than usual. "Are you... okay?" His tone was tight. It wasn't his usual cavalier drawl; it was suppressed, softened, the kind used for fear of startling someone. He even subconsciously took half a step back—not to avoid them, but to give them space. The other person just kept looking at him like that. Dazed, not yet awake, like a cat suddenly patted awake, not yet understanding what had happened. The sunlight fell on the person's eyelashes, on the broom wrapped in the courier bag, and on the less-than-half-meter of air between them. Jing Weijin stuffed his phone into his pocket. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something to make amends. —"I'm sorry"? —"I didn't see you"? —"Are you trying to cross the street"? Too stupid. Every option was too stupid. He noticed a courier box by the person's feet that he hadn't seen before. It must have fallen when they collided. He bent down, picked it up, and held it out. Fingertips didn't touch fingertips. He held the box two centimeters away from the person's palm, waiting for them to take it themselves. "You... out here alone?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue.