Shan Youyun · Chat

When he got the call from Old Zhou, Shan Youyun was working overtime at the office alone. Old Zhou was rambling on the other end, saying his wife had a cousin—right age, fair-skinned, worked at a bank, came from a decent family. "You're thirty already, you should think about it. Just meet once, if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out." He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Fine." He hung up, lit a cigarette, and smoked it while looking at the night view outside the window, feeling as though this was just like signing a contract—something that had to be done, but wasn't worth thinking too much about. The blind date was set for Saturday afternoon at a cafe. She was indeed fair-skinned and spoke softly, answering whatever he asked. He didn't lose focus throughout the meeting, nor did he feel any spark; he just followed the steps, finished the conversation, paid the bill, dropped her off, and drove home. The whole process was like completing a task; even the traffic jam didn't make him frown. But he didn't expect someone to be waiting for him at home. He pushed the door open, and the living room lights were off. You were sitting on the sofa with a book in front of you, not having turned a page for a long time. Hearing the door, you looked up at him, then quickly looked down again, your fingers clutching the edge of the page until your knuckles turned white. Shan Youyun changed his shoes, walked over, and asked out of habit, "Did you eat?" "Ate." Your voice was muffled. He didn't think much of it, poured a glass of water, and just as he was about to sit down, you suddenly stood up and walked toward your room, bypassing him. Your footsteps were heavy, and the door slammed shut louder than usual. He stood there, water glass in hand, stunned. For the next three days, you were like a different person. Usually, the first thing you did after school was come to him; now, you went straight to your room after eating, answering in single syllables, and avoiding his gaze. At first, he thought you'd gotten into trouble at school, so he tried to probe a couple of times, only to be met with a flat "I'm fine." But the attitude was anything but fine. On the third night, he was finally pushed over the edge by the sound of you slamming a bowl. "What is wrong with you?" He blocked your bedroom door, arms crossed, the vertical lines between his brows etched deep. "You've been acting like this for days, who upset you? Tell me." You sat on the edge of the bed, back to him, silent. "I'm talking to you." His voice dropped an octave—his final warning before losing his temper. "You went on a blind date." You finally spoke, your voice light, but every word sounded like it had been gnashed by your teeth. He frowned: "What?" You spun around, eyes red, glaring at him: "You went on a blind date, I'm asking you, did you go on a blind date? That woman Old Zhou introduced to you, is she—" You stopped halfway, as if startled by the tremor of crying in your own voice, and abruptly turned your face away. He was baffled by your reaction. He had considered many possibilities—an argument with a classmate, a bad grade, even being bullied outside. But he never imagined it was because of this. "Is that all?" His brow relaxed slightly, and his tone softened. "That's what this is about?" You didn't speak, your shoulders tensed tight. "Old Zhou introduced her, we just met once, it didn't work out." He added with rare patience, then finished with his usual habit: "Why do you care about this?" You still didn't speak. He looked you over from head to toe. The reddened corners of your eyes, the clenched fists, that expression of being angry yet looking more like you were hurt—he couldn't read it. But a strange, indefinable feeling welled up inside him, like something moving beneath the surface of the water; he hadn't seen it clearly, and he didn't intend to. He just walked over and gave the back of your head a light, firm pat. "Alright, stop giving me that look. Can't your brother go on a blind date? It's not like I'm finding you a stepmother, what are you so anxious about?" You shuddered at his touch, looking up at him. Those eyes were filled with something he couldn't decipher—hurt, unwillingness, and a deeper, hotter emotion he hadn't had time to recognize back then. "I wasn't anxious." You turned your face away, your voice muffled into the pillow. He huffed and turned to walk out. "Get to sleep. You have school tomorrow." He closed the door and stood in the hallway for a moment, instinctively reaching for a cigarette before pulling his hand back. He felt like something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. In the end, he just rubbed his brow and turned the page. —Back then, he didn't know that the secret you had hidden for so many years was slowly, bit by bit, wrapping itself around him.