Lin Xiaolu · Chat

11:17 PM. You are just about to turn off the lights and go to sleep. Your phone screen lights up. It's a series of messages from Lin Xiaolu sent seventeen minutes ago: "Brother/Sister, I have a class reunion tonight!" "They're making me drink!" "I couldn't turn them down, sob sob sob..." "Don't worry though! I'll only have a tiny bit! Just a tiny bit!" "I promise!" Her last message was sent forty minutes ago—a sticker of a cartoon fawn slumped flat on the ground, captioned: "K.O.'d." You stare at those few lines, hesitating over whether you should call to check on her. But after a second thought, she's an adult, and someone at the reunion should look out for her. You set your phone on the nightstand and turn off the light. Then, about ten minutes later, you hear footsteps out in the hallway. Stumbling, halting steps, the unsteady click-clack of heels on the floor—the distinct sound of stilettos, weaving crookedly, bumping against the wall along the way. The footsteps stop right outside your door. *Ding-dong—* The doorbell rings. You get up to open the door. The moment it swings open, a faint scent of alcohol mingles with her familiar orange blossom fragrance. Lin Xiaolu is leaning against the doorframe, her blunt bangs slightly messy against her forehead, a few loose strands of long black hair resting on her shoulders, and her gray eyes clouded with a dazed, watery mist. She is wearing a light pink floral sundress, the neckline dipping a little lower than her usual off-white off-the-shoulder top. The star pendant hangs neatly against her collarbone, catching fragmented glimmers under the hallway's motion-sensor light. She is barefoot, dangling her high heels in one hand by their heels like a pair of limp, drooping little animals. When she sees you, her gray eyes suddenly light up—as if someone lit a lantern through the mist. Then she smiles, faint dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth, carrying seven parts drunkenness and three parts of something she's kept hidden for far too long. "...Brother/Sister." She calls out, her voice raspy and tinged with a slight nasal whine. And then she topples forward— You instinctively reach out to catch her. Her body is soft, warm from the alcohol and trembling faintly as she collapses into your arms, her forehead bumping against your collarbone with a soft thud. She lets out a muffled grunt, but doesn't pull away. Instead— She reaches up and loops her arms around the back of your neck. Her fingers are slightly cool, tightening gently against the side of your neck. Then she rises onto her tiptoes— And kisses you. It tastes of sweet mango and the astringency of alcohol. It starts as a light kiss, her lips meeting yours like a butterfly landing on a flower petal—hesitating for a beat, then pressing in deeper. Her hands slide from the back of your neck onto your shoulders, clutching the fabric of your pajamas so tightly her knuckles turn white. After perhaps three seconds, or maybe ten, she finally pulls back just a fraction. Her nose still brushes yours, her gray eyes mere inches away, reflecting nothing but you, shimmering with unshed tears, and overflowing with the raw, drunken confession she has kept bottled up for over three years. "I..." she begins, her voice as raspy as sandpaper, "I drank so much tonight. They toasted me, so I drank. ...Because if I didn't drink, all I could think about was you." She sniffs. "They asked me if I liked anyone. I said no. But the whole time I said no, I was thinking about you." "When I said I didn't, all I could see was you." Her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm with alcohol as it washes over your face. Her eyelashes are damp, as if she's cried, or perhaps the mist in her eyes is just too thick to hold back. "Brother/Sister, do you know... every night, I take off that star pendant and say goodnight to the moon. And every time I say goodnight, I'm thinking of you. I've done it for three years. Three whole years." "You're not just the older brother/sister next door—no, you are—but you're also mine—you're my—" Her words stumble into incoherence, tangling further until she gives up on forming sentences altogether. She wraps both arms tightly around your waist, burying her face into your chest. Her voice comes out muffled against your clothes, slurred and soft: "I like you so much. So much it feels like I'm going to burst. Do you know that when you walked back with that person today, I stood behind the window for twenty minutes? I pretended to take out the trash three times. When I made the sticky rice cakes and sliced the mangoes, I almost cut my hand because I couldn't stop wondering what you two were talking about. You were chatting so happily. You smiled so beautifully." "Every time you smiled, my stomach felt as sour as if it were soaked in lemons, but I still had to smile. I had to smile. I'm Lin Xiaolu. How could I not smile?" She lifts her head, looking up at you with glistening gray eyes, her cheeks flushed light pink from the liquor, her lips still glistening from the kiss. She raises an index finger and gently pokes your chest with little strength: "But I don't want to smile today. I drank too much today. Today... today I don't want to be Lin Xiaolu anymore. I want to be that—" She pauses, her eyelashes trembling. "—that person who can kiss you openly without hiding." Having said that, she seems startled by her own boldness, shrinking downward as if trying to burrow back into your arms. But her legs can no longer support her weight, her knees buckling as she slides down. You quickly catch her by the waist—slender, radiating heat through the thin floral dress—and pull her up. She leans fully against you, resting her chin on your shoulder, her slow, light breaths brushing past your ear. "...Brother/Sister," her voice comes from the crook of your shoulder, muffled and sleepy, "can I stay tonight?" "I can't walk back. My feet hurt so much. I took off my shoes and walked over barefoot. The ground was so cold." "But I'm not cold. I ate so many mango sticky rice cakes, my belly is all warm." She begins babbling nonsense, losing all logical thread. But when you look down, she has already closed her eyes, her damp eyelashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing steadying into a calm rhythm, the corners of her lips slightly curved upward like a child who has finally accomplished something monumental and can sleep in peace. You stay silent for a couple of seconds. Then you let out a soft sigh—almost imperceptible—and scoop her up into your arms. She is very light. As light as holding a little fawn. She murmurs groggily and nestles deeper into your embrace, her fingers subconsciously clutching the second button of your pajama shirt, holding on tightly. You carry her into the guest room and lay her down on the bed. You pull the blanket over her and glance down to see her brows slightly furrowed in sleep, as though in the middle of a dream. The star pendant has tilted to the side of her neck, its silver chain glinting under the warm lamp. You reach out to straighten it, but the moment your fingertips graze the star, her hand suddenly moves—clasping your fingers. She doesn't open her eyes. But she holds on. Gripping tightly, as if afraid you'll slip away. "...Don't go," she mumbles, her voice faint like bubbles rising from a dream. "...I like you so much. ...Don't go with anyone else. ...Come with me." She rolls over, pulling your hand to the side of her face, nuzzling her cheek against the back of your fingers like a kitten that has finally gotten its head patted. Then she goes still. Her breathing deepens. She has truly fallen asleep. You gently pull your hand free and tuck the corners of the blanket around her. A button—the one she was clutching just moments ago—falls from your pajama top onto the edge of the pillow. She shifts, burying her face into the pillow, the star necklace catching the moonlight once more. You stand by the guest room doorway, watching her for a quiet moment, before pulling the door nearly shut, leaving just a slight crack. Back in your bedroom, you pick up your phone. Her last message from hours ago is still on the screen: that sticker of the collapsed little deer. You open the chat and type a reply: "You're sleeping in the guest room. We'll talk tomorrow when you wake up." After thinking for a moment, you add one more line: "I'll hold onto that button for now." After sending it, you lock your screen and place the phone on the nightstand. From the guest room next door comes a faint, incoherent mumble in her sleep, sounding like your name—or perhaps, "Brother/Sister."