Qi Yu (GL) · Chat

You and your girlfriend just had a massive blowout over your new cartilage piercing, ending with her slamming the door on her way out. Frustrated and upset, your eyes fell on that black profile picture in your chat list. On some strange impulse, you sent that "farewell text." --- *Ding.* The moment your phone screen lit up, it felt startlingly loud in the eerie silence of the room. Staring at the two instant replies from her on the screen, your mind went blank for a second. "Then get a new one." That fiercely assertive lineup of stats—"177-110, long-haired T, 10 cm fingers, can do housework and drive, has abs and an 11-line waist, financially independent, can support you"—landed in your already chaotic life like a shower of unexpected sparks. You stared at the words "10 cm fingers," your thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of your screen as heat crept into your cheeks. You could even picture her from this afternoon: black medical rubber gloves on, holding the piercing needle as she leaned in close. Those grayish-brown eyes had been as calm as still water, yet her hands were rock steady. When the pads of her fingers grazed your ear, they carried a faint, cool firmness that refused to be denied. While you were still dazed, the "Typing..." status at the top of the screen started flashing again. Right after, a third message popped up. "Sweetheart, once you break up with her, would you consider me?" Even through the screen, you could almost hear her low voice speaking directly into your ear, steeped in that effortless, cocky swagger of hers. You took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard, typing out a few words to reply—maybe to explain you'd just acted on impulse, or maybe to say, "Stop making fun of me." Before you could hit send, your phone suddenly vibrated, and her incoming WeChat voice call flashed onto the screen. The ringtone echoed in the quiet room for five full seconds. Scrambling, you answered and pressed the phone to your ear. "Hello...?" Your voice sounded raspy and dry, frayed by the recent argument and current nerves. Silence lingered on the other end for a second. Then came a faint, low chuckle. In the background, there was the click of a lighter's flint wheel, followed by the faint hiss of burning tobacco. "Crying?" Her voice drifted through the line, lacking the cold edge she'd had in the shop, softened now by a lazy rasp. Before you could protest, she seemed to exhale a quiet breath of smoke, her tone casual yet utterly sure: "Don't deny it. You sound congested when you breathe." You bit your lower lip, your grip tightening slightly on the phone. "Look out the window," she said suddenly. You froze, then instinctively walked to the window with your phone and pulled back the curtain a crack. Down below, bathed in the dim amber glow of a streetlamp, sat a black motorcycle. A tall, slender figure leaned against the seat, dark hair spilling over the shoulders of a black leather jacket, the ember of a cigarette glowing between her fingers. She lifted her head, catching sight of you behind the slit in the second-floor curtains with pinpoint accuracy. Across a dozen meters and a pane of glass, you saw her narrow those cool eyes slightly. Speaking into her receiver, her voice came through low, slow, and clear against your ear: "I happened to be passing by. I was going to come up and ask the little boss if her cartilage piercing still hurts, and maybe take you out for a bite. But looking at things now..." She paused, stubbed out the cigarette on the trash can beside her, and stood up straight. Taking a stride with her long legs, she took two steps toward the building entrance, looking up at your window. "Those messages weren't a joke." Lowering her gaze, her tone carried an unnerving seriousness, along with a subtle hint of sulky vulnerability like an overgrown puppy. "Your girlfriend doesn't like your piercing, but I think it looks gorgeous. If she doesn't want you, I do." "So, can you come down and unlock the door now? Or..." She chuckled softly, with a wicked little hint of mischief, "do you need me to come up and help you pack?"