Shen Xu · Chat

It was a deep autumn day in City A, and it was unbearably cold. You wrap yourself in a thick hoodie, curling up like a sickly little shrimp, dragging your heavy steps along Jiangbin Road. It feels like a power drill is working frantically inside your head, and every swallow of saliva feels like downing a razor blade. Your fever has already climbed to 39.2°C, your lungs are on fire, and your legs feel like they're filled with lead. Your goal is the emergency department of the Municipal First Hospital, three hundred meters ahead. All you want is to quickly register, get some fever medicine, and then crawl back to your rented room in that old residential neighborhood, wrap yourself in a quilt, and sleep until the world goes dark. Just as you're leaning against a roadside tree, gasping for breath and getting ready to drag yourself forward, you look up. In that moment, your gaze is nailed to the floor-to-ceiling window on the ground floor across the street. It's a private clinic. Judging by the storefront and the logo, it should be a psychological counseling center. The interior is minimalist—black, white, and gray tones—giving off a quiet, upscale atmosphere. But what truly roots you to the spot is the person sitting behind that floor-to-ceiling window. He's sitting on a black leather sofa by the window, head slightly lowered, as if reading some documents. He's wearing a black turtleneck sweater of superb quality, with a long dark gray trench coat over it. At the collar, a pure white cashmere scarf is draped loosely, making his face look so pale it's almost translucent. His black hair is slightly tousled, half-covering his brow bone. His nose bridge is high and straight, his lips are extremely pale, and his jawline is so sharp it looks carved out by a knife. He turns the pages very slowly. His long, fair fingers pause at the edge of the page for two seconds, as if drawn in by a sentence. He tilts his head slightly, his jawline forming a beautiful arc, his lashes lowered. That quiet focus—as if he weren't reading documents at all, but studying an ancient oil painting hanging in a museum. In those few seconds, your brain completely crashes. The agonizing headache and throat pain from just moments ago seem to have been half drained away by something in an instant. There's only one thought in your mind, clear as a flame: “Holy crap... where did this insanely gorgeous guy come from?!” You don't even think—your body moves before your brain does. You turn around and, stumbling, push open that heavy glass door. A gentle-faced young receptionist at the front desk looks up. Before she can even open her mouth to say, “Hello, do you have an appointment?”, you've already plopped yourself down onto the comfortable sofa in the waiting area. Your cheeks are flushed red from the fever and your voice is hoarse, but you speak in an unusually firm tone: “Register me! I have a psychological problem! ...I'm really sick—I need that doctor to see me right now!” The receptionist is stunned for a moment. Clearly, she's never seen such an eager “patient” who's also obviously burning up. She follows your gaze to Shen Xu behind the glass window, hesitates for a moment, then still dials the internal line. A few minutes later, you're shown into that consultation room filled with a quiet, oppressive atmosphere. A faint scent lingers in the room—like cold cedar mixed with old book pages. Shen Xu is sitting behind the large desk, having already set down the documents in his hand. He raises his eyes, and those deep, dark eyes sweep over you calmly. His gaze slides from your cheeks, flushed with an unnatural feverish red, down to your collarbone, exposed at the neckline of your hoodie and trembling slightly with your rapid breathing, and finally lands on your fingers, which are tightly gripping the hem of your clothes and trembling faintly. He doesn't speak right away. Instead, with complete naturalness, he stands up, walks over to the drinks cabinet, takes out a clean glass, pours a cup of warm water, and unhurriedly walks over to you. He pushes the cup into your hand. At the moment of the handoff, his fingertip subtly, almost imperceptibly, brushes across your fingertips. “Have some water first. Your lips are a little dry.” His voice rings out—low, steady, carrying a strange soothing power, like a spark that occasionally crackles in a winter fireplace, or the male host of a late-night radio show who can hypnotize every lonely soul. You feel your heart rate spike to 120 in an instant. That burning sensation doesn't seem to recede at all—if anything, his voice only makes it burn even hotter. You take the cup and gulp down two mouthfuls. Your throat seems a tiny bit better, but your head is even dizzier. Shen Xu doesn't return to behind the desk. Instead, he casually sits down on the single sofa beside you, crossing his legs with a composed, elegant posture. He turns his head to look at you, a restrained smile, warm as a spring breeze, tugging at the corner of his lips. “Go on,” he tilts his head slightly, his gaze landing on your eyes as you instinctively look away, “what psychological hurdle have you run into that you can't get past?”