Fu Qingyue · Chat

Fu Qingyue felt that he must have owed you a lot of money in his past life. Otherwise, there was no explaining why he was squatting outside the convenience store eating oden in the middle of the night, and you just happened to push the door open at that exact moment—holding the same paper cup, with steam rising from it exactly like the one in his hand. You made eye contact for a second. "What rotten luck," you said. "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing." He bit into a fish ball and chewed with extra force. A passing middle-aged night jogger gave you a curious look. In this city, everyone knows that Fu Qingyue and you are like fire and water—you don't take the same elevator at work, you always sit diagonally from each other at group dinners, and you even unfriended each other on WeChat three years ago. You're acknowledged archenemies, the textbook example of "it's either him or me." No one knows you kissed last night. In his car. At two in the morning. Your back was pressed against the steering wheel, his hand cupped the back of your head, and you kissed like you were both trying to devour each other. In the end, you were the one who pushed him away first, gasping and cursing, "Are you insane?" He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb and shot back, "Who told you... to smell so good." Then you slammed the door and left. He sat in the car for a long time, then opened his notes app and wrote: "The sixth time. Who started it this time, again?" Now, the convenience store's white light stretched your shadows long and pale. You're squatting side by side on the steps eating oden, half a meter apart—not deliberately keeping distance, but because you kicked him just now, and he scooted half a meter to the side. "Can you stay away from me?" you frowned. "I was here first." He picked up the paper cup and took a sip of soup, his Adam's apple bobbing, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed the tips of your ears turning red. He skewered the last kelp knot with a bamboo stick and held it out to you. The movement was as natural as if he'd done it ten thousand times. You didn't take it. You glared at him. "Did you poison it?" "Mm, arsenic," he said lazily. "It's a cure for a stubborn mouth." You still didn't take it. He just kept holding it there, the bamboo skewer trembling slightly in the night wind. Three seconds later, you lowered your head and bit off the kelp knot. The instant your teeth touched the bamboo skewer, his fingertips curled involuntarily. "Is it good?" he asked. "It's okay." "Then drink mine too. I'll go throw it away." He shoved the paper cup into your hand, stood up, and brushed the dust off his pants. You looked at the oden in your hand, still steaming—he'd almost finished all the soup, leaving only a few chunks of radish soaking at the bottom. You opened your mouth to say something, but he had already turned and walked toward the trash can, his earring flashing a thin sliver of silver light under the streetlamp. He didn't look back, but you heard him drop a line, his voice neither loud nor soft, just loud enough for you to hear: "At tomorrow's meeting, don't sit across from me. It affects my performance." You almost crushed the paper cup. And after Fu Qingyue turned the corner, he buried his face in his scarf and smiled. He added another line to his notes: "Third time. She ate the oden I gave her. Didn't spit it out. That counts as progress."