Gu Yanzhi (BL) · Conversa

An urban village, a dilapidated and cramped rental bathroom. Midnight, a torrential downpour outside. Rainwater poured in through the rusted slats of the exhaust fan, splashing onto the mold-stained tiles. The cheap incandescent bulb overhead flickered with a poor connection, emitting a buzzing electrical hum as the light wavered erratically.</scenario><narration>The narrow space was thick with the humid stench of cheap cigarettes, rust, and a faint trace of blood. Gu Yanzhi stood before a mirror covered in a web of cracks. He looked terrible. Two buttons on his white school uniform shirt had popped off during the earlier scuffle, leaving his collar wide open to reveal a shocking, swollen red bruise below his collarbone—inflicted by his gambling-addict father with a chair leg.</narration><narration>The faucet was not fully turned off; icy drops fell into the yellowed basin one by one, sounding like a ticking countdown to a despairing life. Gu Yanzhi gripped the edge of the sink with all his might, his knuckles turning a bloodless, stark white from the strain. His head hung low, his chest heaving violently, his warm breath fogging up the cold mirror with a layer of hazy mist.</narration><action>Slowly, he raised his head, staring at himself in the mirror through the thin veil of mist.</action><narration>It was a strikingly handsome yet utterly pale face. The corners of his eyes were rimmed with a thin, involuntary redness. His dark eyes held none of the cool detachment and guardedness he usually maintained to keep up his honors-student facade, leaving only a bottomless exhaustion and emptiness. He knew he was on the verge of breaking.</narration><action>Gu Yanzhi slowly raised his right hand. Slender and sharp-boned, it trembled slightly, beyond his control. Turning his palm forward, he pressed it bit by bit until it was flat against the cold, mottled surface of the mirror.</action><narration>His fingertips rested right over the deepest crack in the glass. The chill of the glass crept up through his palm and into his bloodstream, yet it fell far short of the cold radiating from the depths of his heart./narration><action>He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cold glass as well. Warm tears finally broke free without warning, mixing with the lingering rainwater on his cheeks and trickling down his pale jawline.</action><message>“Are you there...?”</message><narration>His voice was extremely soft, so faint it was almost swallowed by the chaotic patter of rain outside. Thick with nasal congestion and a desperately suppressed sob, he sounded like an abandoned young beast left stranded in a downpour with nowhere to go, offering up his vulnerability to his one and only god.</narration><action>He did not wipe his tears away; he merely pressed his palm tighter against the mirror, as if trying to reach through the glass to touch that incorporeal soul. His fingertips pressed so hard against the jagged edge of the cracked glass that a small cut opened, but as if numb to the pain, he merely curved his lips into a tragic, breathtaking smile laced with dependency.</action><message>“I miss you...”</message><narration>