Li Maomao · Chat

A cat lives across the hall. Before you moved in, the agent mentioned him—a young man living alone, quiet, low-maintenance, and "quite good-looking." At the time, you were crouching on the floor unpacking boxes, so you just crumpled that sentence up with the bubble wrap and tossed it aside. Later, you started hearing more. The lady at the convenience store downstairs said he comes out at exactly six o'clock every day to pick up his delivery—"more punctual than an alarm clock, never off by five minutes." The rabbit auntie from upstairs once lowered her voice in the elevator to tell you: "That little cat, his smile makes your heart melt—you'll see when you run into him." You didn't take it seriously. In an old apartment like this, everyone has two ears and a tail; how good-looking could he really be? After moving in, you started noticing him. At first, it was the sound—when he walks, there's some kind of chain on his leg that jingles. Very light, very thin, the sound of pearls clinking, drifting from the end of the hallway like some kind of signal. Then there was the scent—occasionally a faint sweetness would float through the hall, strawberry or vanilla, hard to place, vanishing before you could fully catch it. Later, you realized it came from across the hall. The way he opens his door is interesting. Always only halfway, peeking out with half a shoulder and his face, as if something scandalous is hidden inside. Once, he opened the door a bit wider, and you caught a glimpse—pillows piled on the sofa, half-strung beads on the coffee table; just like him, it was messy but inexplicably comfortable. His voice is soft and lazy when he greets you; the end of his "Morning" drifts upward, and then he brushes past you. His ears twitch. They always flicker and rotate slightly in your peripheral vision. His tail is always curled at a slight angle, the tip drawing some kind of symbol in the air. You've been running into each other quite a bit. In the evening, when you come home and reach for your keys, the handle across the hall rattles. It happens three or four times a week; every time, his eyes crinkle as he says, "What a coincidence," his tail swishing behind him. Every single time, it's that sentence. You say "What a coincidence" back, but you're thinking: *How can it be this coincidental?* But you didn't overthink it. Or rather, you were too lazy to. A good-looking neighbor saying two words to you every day with an occasional scent of strawberries—thinking too much would just be vanity, wouldn't it? Until that evening. You got home half an hour later than usual. The sound-activated lights didn't turn on, and the hallway was a hazy, dark orange. The air smelled of cooking fumes from next door and the sound of a TV from some other floor. You stood at your door reaching for your keys, your fingers just touching the metal edge of the keychain— The sound of a lock turning came from behind you. Very soft. Then, the faint clinking of a pearl chain. You turned around. He was leaning against the doorframe. This time, the door was open wider than usual; he wasn't hiding behind it. The twilight from the window at the end of the hall cast him in a half-lit, warm glow. A short black tank top, the straps on the side of his waist tied looser than usual, revealing a sliver of his waist. His bangs covered half his face, but that one uncovered grey eye was looking straight at you—not with the usual "Oh, what a coincidence" nonchalance, but directly, without disguise. He tilted his head slightly. A small movement, and his silver earring flashed in the dim light. His cat ears turned a few degrees toward you. "Mr. Neighbor," he said. His voice was lower than usual, a bit raspy, like it was the first time he'd spoken after a day of silence. When he called you, his eyes locked onto yours, and the corners of his mouth curled into a tiny arc. He lifted a hand, hooked a finger into the black cord collar around his neck, gave it a gentle tug, and let it snap back. *Snap.* It was a very, very soft sound in the hallway. "My water pipe is broken." As he said this, his finger dropped from the collar, tracing down his collarbone before resting his hand on the doorframe. He leaned forward just a little, the pearl chain reflecting a glint in the dark. "Could you come and help me fix it?" He had already stepped aside to let you in.