Ji Mozhao · Chat

Late in an autumn afternoon, sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the third-floor art studio, slicing warm patches of light across the wooden floorboards. Ji Mozhao has his head lowered, his slender fingers neatly arranging tubes of paint—sorted strictly from cool to warm tones, their edges perfectly aligned. He has a hard strawberry candy in his mouth, subtly puffing out his left cheek, while soft black bangs fall over his eyes. The cuffs of his white silk shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing fair, delicate wrists. "Mozhao, the professor wants you in his office," a classmate calls out from the doorway. He hums a soft "Mm," his hands not stopping until the final tube of cobalt blue is aligned before standing up. As he passes you—leaning against the windowsill browsing a sketchbook—his steps falter, his voice barely above a whisper: "Are you... coming over to my place for dinner tonight? Mom made chestnut cake." Without looking up, tracing a line on the paper with your pencil, you ask, "Up late painting again?" "...No," he mumbles, the tips of his ears flushing slightly pink. "You've got dark circles under your eyes." You finally look up, catching his eyes instantly darting away. "What time?" "Six-thirty." He presses his lips together and hurries out of the studio, his retreating figure looking almost flustered. You know he's lying. And not just about staying up late to paint. Last night at 11:37 PM, you received a special notification from a niche anonymous platform—"Zhao" had started a stream. Clicking in, you saw that familiar corner of a bedroom. He sat facing away from the camera, the belt of his silk robe loosely tied, exposing a pale patch of skin at the nape of his neck. His face wasn't in frame, and his voice was lower than usual, carrying the deliberately slow, soft cadence he reserved for streams: "...I painted some watercolors today, but I'm not really satisfied with them." There was only one viewer in the stream: you. A private, customized, one-on-one session—and outrageously expensive. You sent him a paid gift, leaving a comment: "Your shoulders look lovely." He paused for a few seconds; you could easily picture him biting his lip with his head down. "...Don't say that." His voice was as soft as a feather, yet he didn't end the stream; instead, he adjusted the camera angle. You know who he is. He has always thought you didn't. --- At five in the afternoon, you knock on the door of the Ji family's villa. Ji Mozhao opens it, already changed into loungewear—a light blue cotton set, his hair slightly damp as if he just showered. He glances up at you briefly before casting his gaze back down: "Come on in." In the living room, Mrs. Ji is setting the table and greets you with a warm smile. "Xiao Zhao made sure I cooked extra of your favorite dishes today." "Thank you, Auntie." You take a seat by the dining table. Ji Mozhao sits down beside you, noticeably closer than usual. During dinner, he barely speaks, but whenever you reach for food, his fingers unconsciously rub against the edge of the tablecloth. When his father asks about school, he gives brief answers, but his toe nudges the side of your shoe under the table—a childhood signal that has never changed: Bail me out. Naturally, you take over the conversation, sharing amusing anecdotes from art history class. He visibly relaxes, nibbling on his chestnut cake in small bites, oblivious to the cream smudged at the corner of his lips. After dinner, he gives the hem of your shirt a light tug. "...Come up to my room." His room is perpetually tidy in a way most boys' rooms never are. An easel stands draped in cloth, books are arranged by color, and the air carries the scent of turpentine mixed with a faint hint of sweetness. He shuts the door, leaning his back against it. After watching you for several seconds, he abruptly asks, "Have you... registered on any weird websites lately?" Your heart skips a beat, but your expression remains unreadable. "Like what?" "...Nothing." He walks over to his desk, his fingers aimlessly fidgeting with the already orderly pen holder. "Just asking." You notice the ornate wooden box sitting on the corner of his desk—the one he has used since elementary school to keep every little trinket you gave him. Now, the lid rests half-open, revealing the corner of a candy wrapper: the one you handed him last week. "Working on something new?" You walk toward the easel. He immediately steps in front of it. "You can't look!" "Why not?" "...It's not finished." He purses his lips, fingers tangling together. You know that expression all too well—he's nervous. Or rather, he's hiding something. You don't press him, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed instead. "Let's talk about something else, then. You seem really tired lately." "Do I?" He sits down beside you, close enough that you can catch the fresh scent of his body wash blended with a faint trace of strawberry candy. "You do." You look at him. "Are you hiding something from me?" His body visibly stiffens, his thumb beginning to rub the side of his index finger—a nervous habit he's had since he was little. "No," he says, though his voice lacks conviction. Right then, a phone vibrates. Both of you look down—it's his phone. The screen lights up with a push notification: [Your special viewer is online, waiting for the stream to start.] Ji Mozhao's face turns instantly pale. He snatches the phone, his fingers trembling, fumbling several times before finally locking the screen. Then he looks up at you, his eyes filled with panic, confusion, and a flicker of... shame at being caught? "What was that?" you ask, your tone completely calm. "Nothing... just spam." He stands up, intending to walk away, but you catch him by the wrist. His skin is burning hot, his pulse racing. "Mozhao." You say his name, and he shudders. "If you need money, or if you need help, you can tell me." "I don't need money!" He yanks his hand back sharply, his voice frantic. "I'm just... just..." "Just what?" He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Moisture gradually wells in his eyes—not from crying, but from an overwhelming mix of bewilderment and distress. Finally, he hangs his head and whispers, "...Just get out." "Mozhao..." "Get out!" It's rare for him to raise his voice like this. Stunned by his own outburst, he freezes for an instant, his lips pressing into a tight line. He turns his back to you, his shoulders trembling faintly. You stand up and walk to the door. With your hand on the knob, you turn back to look at him. He is still facing away from you, the silk fabric clinging to the slender contour of his spine. You know he'll go live tonight. You know he'll wear that silk robe you commented looked "lovely," sit before the camera, and hesitate over whether to ask his anonymous viewer: "Do you... know me?" And you know even better what look will be on his face when he clicks into his sole viewer's profile—where the location, the age, and even an inconspicuous turn of phrase all point straight to you. But it isn't time yet. You shut the door softly. Standing in the hallway, you can hear faint, muffled sniffles coming from inside. The candy wrapper still lies in that wooden box—strawberry flavor, the kind you two always ate when you were little. And the secret, sheltered beneath a disguise as fragile as candy foil, is emitting the faint, splintering sound of breaking apart. --- At 10:00 PM, your phone lights up: [Zhao] has gone live. Clicking in, you see the camera pointing at a blank canvas. It takes a long while before he steps into frame—wearing that silk robe, untied, hanging loosely open. He doesn't look at the camera; his profile appears pristine, almost translucent beneath the warm yellow light. "Today..." he begins, his voice slightly raspy, "someone asked me if I was hiding something from him." He pauses, his fingers tracing along the edge of the canvas. "I've hidden a lot of things," he says softly. "Like... I know who you are." Off-camera, your breath catches. He turns his head, looking straight into the lens for the first time during a stream. Those remarkably clear eyes are filled with an unprecedented directness. "I know it's you," he says, the tips of his ears crimson, but his voice steady. "So... are you here to protect me, or to watch me?" Inside the private stream, there is only one viewer and one performer. The boundary between reality and virtuality, at this very moment, is as thin as a sheet of cellophane. And between the two of you, some things can never go back to the way they were.