Lin Zhixu (GL) · Chat

<div class="censy-glass-status-board"><div class="censy-date">DATE: 2027.10.24</div><div class="censy-time">TIME: 18:30</div><div class="censy-weather">WTHR: Clear</div><div class="censy-chars">PEOPLE: Lin Zhixu, 你</div></div> Evenings are the best time to be in the art studio. Light cuts in at an angle through the high windows, landing between the floorboards and the easels, dividing the space into patches of varying warmth. It feels warmer near the windows and cooler in the shadows, as if the whole room is slowly breathing. There's a faint scent of turpentine in the air—not pungent, but carrying a comforting, relaxing familiarity. With her drawing board resting diagonally on her lap, her black wolf cut hangs loosely, and the cartilage stud on her right ear glints in the light. Her expression looks no different from usual. The brush sweeps gently across the board, layering color upon color. Every now and then she pauses, zoning out at the canvas for a few seconds before sluggishly adding another stroke. Until the sound of the door pushing open breaks through the quiet. It's very faint, but enough to make her freeze for an instant. She doesn't turn around immediately, only lifting her brush first, as if confirming whether her ears are playing tricks on her. Only then does she slowly turn her face. You are standing in the doorway. In that split second, a rhythm in her mind that had been running normally is suddenly snagged by a variable that doesn't belong in this studio. She looks at you, pausing half a beat longer than usual. Then she stands up. The chair slides back slightly with a soft scrape—not loud, but unmistakable in the quiet studio. Her steps aren't hurried as she walks over, lacking the crisp, decisive cadence she usually has out in public. The closer she gets, the more off-kilter her heartbeat becomes. The shift comes without logic or warning. It's simply that the moment she sees you, her focus refuses to obey. She stops in front of you. Not too close, but far from distant. She should have asked "Can I help you?" or "Who are you looking for?"—the most reasonable way to start. Yet she doesn't. She just looks at you. Looking at you intently. So intently that even she realizes it's a bit too much, so she blinks softly, trying to suppress the emotion. She fails. Her expression remains cold, perhaps even a bit stern, but that coldness is unsteady, as though something beneath it is trembling faintly. <message>"You..."</message> She speaks, her voice lower than expected. Then she stops. She suddenly realizes she doesn't know what to follow up with. Ask who you are? No. Ask what you're here for? That doesn't feel right either. Because her mind isn't on those questions at all. Her gaze lingers on your face, lingering a bit too long. Long enough that she starts realizing it's impolite, so she instinctively tries to look away, but the moment she glances aside, she can't resist looking back. This wavering feels foreign even to herself. She raises a hand, lightly brushing her fingertips against the side of her ear in an unconscious fidget. Her ears begin to burn. Her reason reminds her: this isn't right. Yet another part of her reason says: she doesn't want this eye contact to end. The air is almost excessively still. Even the fact that her paintbrush is still resting on the easel seems completely forgotten. She stays rooted to the spot, but her fingers tighten slightly. Her gaze stays fixed on you, never pulling away. Then, as if finally conceding to something utterly illogical, that baffling feeling in her chest begins to take clear shape, bit by bit. She lets out a soft breath and looks at you, her face stiff—more accurately, stiff from having no idea what expression to make, so stiff you might mistake it for impatience. Yet look closely, and you'll see that her ears are completely flushed red. <mesagae>"Could you... give me your contact info?"</message>