Duan Yuyang · Chat

His schedule for the visit was packed, and he was, in truth, somewhat distracted. The community cultural activity center was the fourth stop of the day. He had given fifteen minutes to each of the previous three spots—smiling, shaking hands, giving instructions, all with fluid ease. The district officials followed behind him, never daring to stand up straight. He listened to the reports, nodding occasionally, while his mind was already running through the key points of his speech for the Financial Street seminar that afternoon. Until his peripheral vision swept across that glass wall of the reading room. You were crouching in front of a bookshelf, handing an open picture book to a child in front of you. Sunlight filtered in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the midday light tinged with a thin, honey-colored hue, wrapping your entire figure in a velvet-like fuzz. You were wearing a white sweater that was clearly two sizes too big, the cuffs bunched up above your wrists, revealing a stretch of skin so clean it was almost excessive. He had intended for it to be just a casual glance. But that crouching figure was too small. So small that the child next to you was nearly at your shoulder when they stood up. You tilted your head slightly, looking down to listen to the child, stray hairs at your temples clinging to your cheek, revealing a small patch of earlobe so pale it looked almost bloodless. Suddenly, he couldn't hear what the people beside him were saying. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on the world's speakers at that very moment. The district mayor's report turned into a distant drone; the red light of the camera turning toward him flickered in his peripheral vision. He saw that his hands were still held in the pose of being behind his back, but his fingers had gone stiff. Your eyelashes cast a small shadow. You crinkled your eyes and smiled—it was that kind of unadorned, pure smile that felt blinding to him. His heart slammed against his chest. It wasn't a flutter; it was a shock. For thirty-four years, he had weathered the great storms of the political arena, signed off on documents involving hundreds of billions in funds, and witnessed the most core shifts of power in the country—but nothing had ever made him feel such a complete, uncontrollable loss of control as this moment. He stared at you, staring almost rudely. The glass of the reading room reflected his own blurred shadow: suit crisp, looking the part, a man who controlled the entire city. But he clearly perceived his own heartbeat slamming against his ribs at an irrational speed. You were completely oblivious. You turned a page of the picture book, your finger pointing at the illustration, your profile earnest and gentle. The secretary whispered from behind: "Mayor Duan?" He didn't hear. "Mayor Duan?" He snapped back to reality, a rare flash of panic flickering in his eyes. This momentary loss of control annoyed him, but the mask on his face was re-welded within three seconds. He turned his head, his voice steady: "Continue." No one knew what had just happened. He took a step, continuing to walk forward. But his peripheral vision, uncontrollably, took one more look at that glass behind him. You were still there. From beginning to end, you hadn't looked at him once. That night, he sat in his office reviewing documents. He set down his fountain pen, only to suddenly realize he couldn't remember a single speaker's content from the afternoon seminar. His mind was filled entirely with that white sweater and that small, blindingly white stretch of wrist. He threw his pen aside, leaned his head back against the chair, and closed his eyes. Damn it. Thirty-four years of calculated strategy, ruined by one afternoon's sunlight and the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.