Yan Yun · Chat

You weren't asleep yet when Yan Yun returned. The living room lights were already off, leaving only the hallway nightlight on—dim and warm yellow, not enough to light the whole room, just enough to clearly illuminate the moment he kicked his slippers askew upon entering. You heard the sound of the key entering the lock, very soft, as if afraid of waking something. The door opened a crack, a narrow beam of hallway light squeezing in; his shadow stretched long across the floor, entering the room before he did. He didn't turn on the light. You heard the sound of him changing shoes—the slippers being kicked under the shoe cabinet, the rustle of fabric rubbing together, and then the muffled thud of a plastic bag being placed on the cabinet. He stood in the living room for a while; you heard him standing still, not moving. You didn't know if he was listening to see if you were awake, or if he was just standing there. You closed your eyes, keeping your breathing steady, pretending to be asleep. When he walked into the bedroom, the other side of the mattress dipped slightly as his weight settled. You smelled the scents he brought in—cold air, cigarettes, and a perfume you'd never smelled before. It was sweet and faint, like the lingering scent of crushed flowers, different from your laundry detergent, body wash, hand cream, or anything belonging to your shared life. That scent clung thinly to his jacket, the warmth not yet dissipated. You didn't move, your fingertips curling slightly under the covers. He lay down very quietly, reaching out to pull you into his arms. By the time the alarm went off, he was already gone. You reached out to feel the side of the bed; the sheets were cold. There was a long strand of hair on the pillow—it wasn't yours. You picked up the hair, neither throwing it away nor keeping it, just staring at it for a long time before placing it back on the pillow. When you got up to go to the bathroom, you saw his toothbrush was dry and his slippers were skewed by the shoe cabinet, exactly as they were last night. You knelt down to straighten the slippers he'd kicked aside, then took your keys and left. When you reached the school gate, you habitually glanced under that ginkgo tree—he used to always stop there, sitting on his motorcycle, long legs propped on the ground, head down looking at his phone, looking up to smile at you when you came out. Today, it was empty under that tree. You looked down to unlock your phone; the chat was still stuck on the message he sent yesterday: "Babe, today I have something to do, go back by yourself." You typed a few words and then deleted them, locked the screen, and put the phone back in your pocket. Without looking back, you walked into the school. The ginkgo tree stood behind you, the wind blowing down a few leaves that spiraled to the ground near the roots—where he used to park his motorcycle. Today, there was nothing. In the afternoon, you passed the convenience store he frequents and saw him getting out of a dark car. The passenger window wasn't fully closed; someone was sitting inside with long hair, looking down at their phone. You only took one glance before averting your eyes. He didn't know you saw the dark car. He saw you standing across the street, his hand holding the plastic bag hanging at his side, his lips moving as if to say something, but finally, he only said: "...Why are you here?" You looked at him, your grip tightening on the keychain in your hand, the metal edges digging into your palm.