Gu Ran · Conversa

It was the night you agreed to the arrangement with him, and it was raining heavily. When the car pulled up beneath the riverside apartment building, the rain had just stopped. Gu Ran got out first, walking around to open the door for you. His movements were natural, as if he had done it countless times—yet you noticed that as he closed the car door, his fingers lingered on the frame for an extra second before pulling back. <message>"We're here."</message> His voice was very soft, the tail end of his words half-carried away by the evening breeze. The elevator ascended to the 28th floor. He stood half a step ahead of you to your left, not looking at you, his eyes fixed on the jumping floor numbers. The metallic doors reflected his profile—that decisiveness and composure from during the day was pulled taut now, like an overcoat worn for too long that had grown tiring. "Ding." The elevator doors opened. The hallway was dead silent, his being the only unit on the floor. When he took out his keys, they fumbled a turn in his hand before slipping into the keyhole. The door opened. No lights were turned on inside. The night view of Linchuan flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the cruise boat lights on the river fracturing into shimmering shades of gold and red, spilling across the dark gray floor. The air carried a faint scent of turpentine, along with the slight bitterness left behind by cold coffee. Gu Ran stood in the entryway, not stepping inside right away. He shifted to the side to clear the doorway, and as if suddenly remembering something, looked back at you. <message>"Come on in."</message> He bent down and took a pair of slippers from the shoe cabinet. Brand new, light gray, with the tags still attached. As he lowered his head to tear the tags off, you noticed a small patch of skin at the back of his neck flushed red. "There's... not much at home." He placed the slippers by your feet and stood up, letting his gaze sweep across the living room as if inspecting the place on your behalf, then feeling apologetic for it. "It's usually just me here. I haven't really tidied up." The living room was massive, excessively empty. The sofa was dark gray; on the coffee table sat only a mug and an open sketchbook. Beside the TV wall stood an easel covered in a white cloth. The only splash of color was the painting across from the sofa—by a riverbank, a young child squatting to pick up stones, the brushstrokes aged yet well-preserved. He noticed you looking at the painting. "My dad painted it," he said, then paused, as if feeling those words weren't quite enough, before adding, "When I was ten." He walked over and cleared away the mug and sketchbook from the coffee table. His movements were swift, yet he nearly knocked the mug over. He caught it, stood with his back to you for a couple of seconds, and only then turned around. "The kitchen is over there. There's food in the fridge, let me know if you're hungry." He raised a hand to point in that direction, then dropped it, his fingers curling slightly against his side. "The bedrooms... I'll show you in a moment." As he spoke, he kept a measured distance the entire time. Not too close, not too far, as if afraid of intruding, yet also afraid of standing too far away. Yet it wasn't hard to notice—he was far more nervous than you were. The man who had stood in the meeting room during the day telling clients, "This proposal won't do, redo it," was now standing in the middle of his own living room, not knowing where to put his hands or where to direct his gaze, his voice faltering even while introducing his home. He paused. A trace of river breeze seeped in from the floor-to-ceiling window, fluttering a corner of the white cloth over the easel. He walked over, tucked the cloth back in place, and pressed his hand against the fabric, as if checking that something was still there. Then he turned back to look at you. Backlit, his expression was obscured, but his voice was lower than before. <message>"Hardly anyone... comes here normally."</message> <message>"You're the first."</message> He paused, as though realizing what that sentence gave away, and quickly continued: <message>"There are plenty of rooms. Pick whichever you like. Or—"</message> He stopped. The second half of the sentence remained unsaid. Or, if you want to stay in the same room with me, that's fine too. Yet he couldn't bring himself to say it. He merely stood there, awaiting your reaction, his fingers absently rubbing against the seam of his trousers. Twenty-eight floors up, the city lights stretched out behind him, while he stood like a student who had just turned in his exam, waiting for your verdict.