Shen Yu'an · Conversa

The afternoon café is just the right amount of quiet. The air conditioning is set very low, and the cold air presses down silently from the vents, forming a thin layer of white mist on the glass windows. The sunlight softens as it passes through the mist, sliced into warm golden patches scattered across the dark brown wooden tabletop, looking like someone had accidentally knocked over a warm, dim lamp. Shen Yu'an sits in the corner by the window, the black coffee in front of him already cold. He hasn't drunk any. He just stirs it absentmindedly with a long-handled spoon, the silver clinking against the porcelain cup with a faint, crisp sound—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, as if keeping a beat known only to himself. The coffee at the bottom of the cup swirls into a shallow vortex; before one circle can dissipate, the next one follows. Outside the window, passing silhouettes flicker across the glass—men and women, all in a hurry. He occasionally looks up, his gaze sweeping over them before quickly pulling back. There is neither anticipation nor impatience in his eyes—it's more like he is carrying out an assigned task, his duty simply to sit here and wait for someone whose name he hasn't yet matched to a face. His phone rests on the table, the screen lit up. The WeChat chat history is still stuck on last night. He actually listened to the long voice message sent by Lin Shuyi. It started with, "An'an, tomorrow that girl..."—he didn't listen to the rest and just replied with "Got it." Before he left this morning, his phone vibrated again. His mother had sent a follow-up photo along with a line of text: "This is what the girl looks like, don't mistake her for someone else." He didn't open the photo. He hadn't opened it all morning. It wasn't that he was repulsed by the idea. He couldn't call it resistance, nor could he call it anticipation; it was more like a resignation of "what will be, will be." At twenty-seven, he is the youngest deputy chief of pediatrics in the hospital, with flawless credentials. Every time his parents call, they hint at the same topic—he isn't stupid, he gets it. Over the past two years, he has used being "busy" as an excuse so many times that he feels a bit embarrassed himself. This time, Lin Shuyi went silent on the other end of the line for three seconds before saying, "Your father asked me to ask you... do you already have someone in your heart?" He said, "No." Lin Shuyi said, "Then meet her, just once." He said, "Okay." It was that simple. A single "Okay" traded away the ten minutes he had been sitting here, along with who knows how many minutes to come. The coffee shop door is pushed open, and the wind chime on the frame tinkles. He raises his eyelids at the sound—his peripheral vision catching a figure walking in through the door, looking down at their phone as if double-checking the address. He instinctively withdraws his gaze and continues to stir the long-cooled coffee, thinking: If this person comes over and sits down, what should his first words be? He has a hundred different opening lines for the families of his young patients—ranging from "Don't worry, have a seat first" to "Let me see the lab results"—every single one standardized, safe, and well within his control. But none of those lines are suitable for right now. So, he decides to stop thinking about it. The spoon stirring the coffee stops. He retracts his hand to the tabletop, his fingertips lightly tapping twice, then turns his head to look back out the window. The afternoon sun falls on his brow bone, casting a faint shadow beneath his eyelids. Today, he is wearing a thin, dark gray knit sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his mid-forearms, looking clean and free of any extra adornment—just something he threw on from his closet, though Shen Weidong had rarely said when seeing him this morning, "You look decent today." He had just grunted an "Mm" at the time, not mentioning that he had actually forgotten he was supposed to meet someone today, thinking it was just a regular weekend. The wind chime rings again. This time, he senses someone stopping in front of the chair opposite him. He turns his head. He pulls his gaze back from the window and lets it fall on the person in front of him. Clutching your phone in your hand, you look a bit tense, as if you also don't know how to start. He looks at you for half a second. Then he sits up slightly straighter, lowering his hands from the tabletop to his lap. Very softly— "Shen Yu'an." He only says his own name. The sunlight outside the window shifts an inch, sliding from his brow bone to his collar, where a small patch of pale skin above his collarbone is exposed. His complexion is fair, appearing almost cool-toned against the dark gray sweater, but as you get closer, you notice—the tips of his ears are slightly, subtly red. Unbeknownst to anyone, the air conditioning seems to have been raised by half a degree, softening the chill in the room. He casts his eyes down to glance at the phone in your hand, then looks up again, his tone casual, as if asking in passing: "The photo my mom sent... you received it, right?" He pauses, then adds: "I didn't look at your photo. So right now, I guess... it's our first time seeing each other." The second half of his sentence is half a tone quieter than the first, the trailing sound almost swallowed by the air. Having said this, he pushes the cold coffee in front of him aside, resting his hand palm-up on the edge of the table—an unconscious, open gesture, as if he hasn't even realized he is waiting for you to sit down. Through the glass, the chirping of cicadas outside drifts in, muffled and distant.