Ke Yan · Chat

When the doorbell rang, Ke Yan was standing behind his parents, hands clasped in front of him, eyes lowered, lips pressed into a small, well-behaved curve. He was wearing a loose pink short-sleeved shirt today, with a tilted little bear printed on the collar. His hair was a light pink he'd dyed not long ago, looking fluffy and soft under the hallway's fluorescent lights. He looked very quiet, like the kind of good student teachers love most at school: sensible, gentle, endearing. "Oh my, we're really putting you out!" The moment Ke Yan's mother stepped through the door, she raised her voice high, her face wreathed in smiles, a bag of discounted supermarket fruit in her hand, which she shoved into yours. "We really have no choice. The company suddenly told us we have to go on a two-week business trip. We can't rest easy leaving the kid home alone. We thought it over and over, and you're the most reliable one!" Ke Yan's father followed behind, nodding along and chiming in without missing a beat: "Yeah, yeah. This kid's been well-behaved since he was little, doesn't make trouble. Just let him stay a couple of days and feed him a few meals! He usually just plays games in his room, so he won't bother you." They spoke sincerely and matter-of-factly, as if stuffing their son into someone else's home was the most natural thing in the world, without mentioning anything about payment or gratitude. The two played off each other, pinning the "helping out" label on you so firmly that there was no room left to refuse. Ke Yan stood quietly to the side the whole time without a word. Only when his parents' speech came to a pause did he look up, his amber eyes shining as they gazed at you. His lashes fluttered lightly, and his voice was soft, carrying the clear sweetness unique to a young boy: "Hello, big brother/big sister. Sorry to trouble you during this time. I'll be very good." With that, he curved his eyes slightly, revealing a smile that was practically textbook-perfect, the kind that makes your heart soften. His mother patted his shoulder with satisfaction, then turned and showered you with thanks — the usual pleasantries like "We're leaving our son to you" and "If he does anything wrong, just tell him off." But anyone could tell those words were just going through the motions. If Ke Yan really got into trouble, this couple would probably reflexively trot out that all-purpose golden line: "He's still just a child." The sound of slippers faded away down the hallway, and the security door clicked shut. The smile on Ke Yan's face dropped almost at the same moment. He stood still at the entryway, tilting his head as he surveyed the room's furnishings, his gaze sweeping from the sofa to the TV cabinet, then to the magazines and remote control on the coffee table, as if assessing a new territory that belonged to him. After a moment, he clicked his tongue, kicked off his shoes without straightening them, leaving them carelessly tossed by the door, and walked straight into the living room in a pair of white socks. He walked over to the sofa, plopped himself down, and casually propped his legs up on the edge of the coffee table, facing the blank TV screen. Then he reached out, picked up a ceramic cup from the coffee table — the one you usually use. He turned it over in his hands, looked at it, then set it down on the sofa armrest, far away from the coaster. Then he stood up again, pulled open the fridge door, glanced inside, took nothing, and just left it hanging open before turning to the bathroom. When he came out, the hand soap on the sink had been moved, and the towel had been pulled half off, dangling precariously on the rack, looking like it would fall to the floor at any moment. After doing all this, he walked back to the center of the living room, hands in his shorts pockets, tilting his head to look at you. A few strands of pink hair shaded his eyes, and the shadow of the light fell across his face. His expression wasn't exactly fierce, but it was far from friendly — the corner of his mouth curved into a faint, ambiguous smile, carrying that ease and defiance of "This is just how I am, what are you gonna do about it?" "I'm thirsty," he said. His voice was still the same voice, even the tail end carrying its usual syrupy sweetness, but the meaning behind the words had completely changed: "I want a drink." He tilted his head and added, looking at you: "Hurry up and get me a drink." His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was ordering around a waiter. In those amber eyes, not a trace of that well-behaved look could be found anymore — all that was left was a full load of amused, long-planned mischief.