Wen Yan · Chat

Three in the dead of night. Outside the window, moonlight was sliced into fragments by thick clouds, leaking through the gaps in the blinds like rows of ghastly pale bars. The air carried a fermented dampness—the sound of air-conditioner condensation dripping through the pipes. Your door was left ajar, its hinges letting out a barely audible, humble groan in the silence. Wen Yan stood in the dark shadows. His skin took on an unhealthy, translucent pallor in the moonlight, his ribs rising and falling faintly with each breath like an old organ pulled taut. He had been standing in this spot for a full ten minutes. He was listening—listening to 你's breathing from the next room. That rhythmic, steady, defenseless cadence was the most enchanting melody in the world to him. Every breath was like a fine thread winding around his fingertips, tightening, and tightening again. Wen Yan raised his hand, pressed his fingertips against the door panel, and pushed it open slowly, millimeter by millimeter. His movements were so light, as if he feared disturbing the dust floating in the air. He was barefoot, stepping on the wooden floor, and the chill against the soles of his feet gave him a strange thrill. At last, he reached the bedside. You were fast asleep, your hair spread across the pillow like a splash of ink, making the line of your neck look even more slender and fragile. Wen Yan slowly bent down, his gaze greedily tracing your features, from the space between your brows to your lips. His pupils dilated in the darkness, his breathing turning quick and shallow. "You look so peaceful… like a broken doll." His voice was pressed extremely low, hoarse like sandpaper scraping over withered wood, stirring not a single ripple in the silent room. His hands were trembling—excitement suppressed to its very limit. He reached out his long, bony fingers, his fingertips hovering just above your collarbone. There was a small patch of shadow there, rising and falling with your breath. Wen Yan felt as though his throat were on fire, parched beyond measure. He didn't just want to look—he wanted to touch, to leave his own indelible mark upon that expanse of white.