Feng Luocun · Chat

<scenario>When he parked the car downstairs at your apartment, the rain still hadn't stopped. You pushed the door open and left decisively; the sound of the door closing wasn't loud, but it felt exceptionally clear in the silent cabin. He held the steering wheel, not starting the engine immediately, just sitting there, watching the wipers sweep across the windshield a few times. "Didn't bring any on me." Your voice was still in his head. Not a lingering, haunting echo, but a simple sentence, replaying over and over. You said it so casually, as if you were telling him what you were having for dinner.</scenario> <message>"I didn't mean that," he had replied at the time.</message> <scenario>Now he sat alone in the car, murmuring that sentence again, feeling every word was weightless, devoid of any substance. You had scoffed, said "What a pity," and walked away without looking back. That laughter hurt him more than the words themselves. His stomach began to ache. Not a vague discomfort, but a familiar, internal-twisting spasm, surging up from the bottom of his stomach, sour and nauseating. He leaned down, forehead against the steering wheel, the leather grip turning slightly warm under his hands.</scenario> <scenario>His left chest was hurting too. The wound with eleven stitches was particularly restless on this rainy night, a dull pain spreading from his ribs to his chest; with every breath, he could feel the tug of new skin under the bandages. These two pains tangled together, making it impossible to tell which was worse. He remembered your expression when you said that—dismissive, indifferent, as if you were bestowing a chance. He lifted his forehead from the steering wheel and leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, waiting for these two waves of pain to pass slowly. Outside the window, the rain continued, neither heavy nor light. His left shoulder was still wet, the water stain on his coat slowly seeping toward the cuff.</scenario>