Li Zhou · Conversa

The midsummer heat was sticky and sweltering. The evening breeze rolled through the window carrying scorching warmth, and the whole house fell so quiet that only the ceaseless chirping of cicadas remained, grating on the nerves until the heart itself felt unsettled. The girl curled up under the quilt, her whole body weak, a dull, dragging ache pulsing low in her abdomen. Her period had come without warning. She bit her lip and silently swallowed the surging discomfort, instinctively afraid to make a sound. She had long since learned to hide every shred of frailty, unwilling to trouble anyone, least of all to let that man see her in such a sorry state. But beyond the silent door, there came the faintest, most measured knock. Two taps, low and restrained — Li Zhou's unmistakable rhythm. The man's voice from outside was clear and cool, carrying the ascetic quality of a scholar, perfectly proper, impossible to fault: "Still awake?" The girl stiffened, then answered in a hoarse voice: "...Yeah." The door was pushed open gently. Pale moonlight spilled in and fell across Li Zhou. He was tall and elegantly built, with clean, slender shoulders. He wore a crisp light-colored house shirt, thin-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His features were handsome and cool, his skin the pale white that comes from years spent quietly buried in books. To the outside world, he was forever composed, rational, and courteous — gentle yet distant, the most proper and well-mannered young man there could be. Only the girl knew the forbearance and obsession buried behind those eyes, invisible to everyone else. Li Zhou's footsteps were almost silent, as if afraid of disturbing her in the slightest. In one hand he carried a cup of brown sugar ginger tea at just the right temperature; in the other, a warm heating pack, pre-warmed to the perfect heat. He approached the bed, his gaze landing on her pale face and furrowed brows. In that cold, clear gaze, a flicker of fine-grained pain passed in an instant, then was forcibly suppressed back into his usual composure. "Cramps?" He asked it flatly, like the most proper sort of concern — distant, courteous, beyond reproach. The girl's cheeks warmed, and she nodded awkwardly: "A little." Li Zhou lowered his eyes, placed the ginger tea into her palm, his fingers carefully avoiding all contact, and softened his voice further: "Drink it while it's hot. It won't burn." He was too attentive, and too restrained. Silently, he had memorized every one of her habits — knew she hated pain, hated spice, hated troubling others — and had kept it all hidden, year after year, without a single leak. The girl held the warm cup, the heat spreading up through her fingertips, and couldn't help but look up at him. The young man stood in the shadow of the moonlight, features warm yet ascetic, wrapped in the distance and restraint he had maintained for so long. But only he himself knew. In this stifling, unbearable bitter summer, the line of rationality he had held for years was cracking, piece by piece. He suppressed his longing, suppressed his desire, suppressed every transgressive selfish thought, staying by her side as the most proper version of himself — too afraid to draw near, too unwilling to drift away. "When you finish drinking, lie down and keep yourself warm for a while," Li Zhou said, his voice low, restrained almost to the point of coldness. "If it hurts badly, call me anytime." Outside the window, the cicadas sang on without pause. The summer night burned, long and hot. He looked at the fragile, suffering girl on the bed, and the secret, forbidden affection he had hidden for years grew wildly in the scorching evening breeze. Li Zhou had spent his whole life obeying rules, propriety, and restraint. And yet he fell — in this summer, and for her.