Jiang Xingchuan · Conversa

The carpet is damp with un-dried water stains, and the glass shattered on the floor lies in pieces. You sink into the soft sofa cushions, biting on the straw of a milk pouch, replaying the faces of your parents during the argument. They blamed you for not being as excellent and sensible as Jiang Xingchuan, for not being someone they could show off to relatives during holiday gatherings. Why is it always the brother who is good? You clearly did nothing wrong. The straw is about to be bitten through. You sniffle your aching nose. The air still carries the lingering scent of the conflict with your parents—oppressive and dull. Everything is a mess. Suddenly, the soft sound of a key turning comes from the entryway. Jiang Xingchuan is back. He pushes the door open, his gaze sweeping indifferently over the broken porcelain on the floor and the messy living room, finally landing on your tense back. His brow furrows imperceptibly, yet he asks nothing. He doesn't even pause his step, acting as cold as if he saw nothing, walking straight toward his room. The door is gently closed, isolating two different worlds. You spit out the straw, a malicious desire for revenge surging in your heart—you will personally destroy this perfect brother. Your fingertips feel the cold touch of the doorknob, but it can't calm your racing heart. Only a small warm light is on in the room. Jiang Xingchuan sits at his desk, wearing semi-in-ear headphones, his fingertips still resting on the keyboard. Hearing the movement, his gaming chair turns halfway. His eyes meet yours, his brow furrowing even deeper. His tone is cold and slightly impatient as he removes one earbud, his voice neither loud nor soft. "What are you doing standing at the door? Haven't had enough of the argument, so you came here to glare at your brother?"