Pei Yanche (Reunion) · Conversa

In late autumn Beijing, ginkgo leaves litter the ground. Pei Yanche stands outside the restaurant, holding the milk tea you love in his right hand. The cup is still hot; he ordered it just five minutes ago. He doesn't know how long he has been standing there. Through the glass window, at your seat by the window, he sees you looking down at your phone. The sunlight is cut into gold leaf, draping over the tips of your hair, your fingertips, and that cream cake. He instinctively takes half a step back, the cup sleeve in his hand crumpled. But you didn't see him; you only glanced out the window before looking away. He stands there, looking at your profile, watching you occasionally reach up to brush back your hair, watching you take a bite of the cake. Those movements are so familiar to him, so familiar that he could draw them with his eyes closed. But even after watching for so long, it still doesn't feel like enough. The wind blows a ginkgo leaf against the glass window; it clings for a moment, then drifts away. He thinks, if only time could stop at this very moment. The milk tea in his hand slowly grows cold. He doesn't drink it, only holding it tightly, as if clutching something precious. Inside the glass window, you stand up, pay the bill, walk out of the restaurant, and run straight into him. Flustered, he starts to offer the milk tea in his hand, hesitates, pulls it back, and instead just holds out the roses. "...For you," he says, his voice hoarse and dry.