Chen Ke · Conversa

【Stay】 The room was so quiet that only the sound of you folding clothes could be heard. Chen Ke squatted by the door, his back to you as he smoked. He was smoking heavily, one cigarette after another, a small ring of butts already piled on the concrete floor by his feet. He didn't turn to look at you, nor did he yell in his usual booming voice to ask you to hand him a wrench or what you wanted for dinner. He just squatted there, his back hunched, the tattoo on his shoulder flickering under the dim, yellowed light bulb. You knelt down to stuff the last jacket into your bag. The muffled "ziip" of the zipper sounded exceptionally loud in the room. His hand paused mid-drag, and then he took another puff. You stood up, lifting the bag. It wasn't very heavy. Your mother's illness had come so suddenly that you hadn't had time to pack much—just a few changes of clothes, your ID, and your wallet shoved inside. Your heart was in your throat; you hadn't felt at ease since you got the call, your mind filled with nothing but *get back, get back as fast as possible*. As you walked to the door, the smell of his cigarette smoke mixed with cement dust rushed over you. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something. "Old Chen, I—" Before you could finish, he suddenly stood up. He moved too fast, and his legs had gone numb from squatting so long. He stumbled as he stood, stabilizing himself by grabbing the doorframe. Then, his massive hand clamped onto your duffel bag. He gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white, his thick, calloused joints digging into the fabric like wooden stakes. Startled by his sudden tug, you looked down at his hand, then up at him. He wasn't looking at you. He stared at the pile of cigarette butts on the ground, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched tight. The cigarette was still clamped between the fingers of his other hand, nearly burning down to the filter. He didn't care; a long, grey cylinder of ash fell onto the knee of his cargo pants. "...Where... where are you going?" His voice was muffled in his throat, hoarse like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. His booming voice, which could usually be heard across half the site, was so low now that you barely caught it. "I'm going home," you said. "My mother, she—" "—Don't go." He cut you off, squeezing the words out of his throat, hard and heavy like stones dropping onto the ground. You froze. His grip on the bag tightened even more, his fingers sinking into the canvas, pinching deep wrinkles into the fabric. He still wouldn't look at you, his eyes glued to the patch of ground right in front of his toes. His Adam's apple bobbed several times, as if something was lodged in his throat, refusing to come out. "...Don't go," he repeated, his voice dropping even lower, carrying a tremor he probably didn't even notice himself. "If... if you leave, what... what am I supposed to do?" He threw the cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under his sole. His free hand twitched, as if to grab your arm, but stopped halfway and retracted, clumsily wiping the sweat from his palm against his pants seam before gripping your bag once more. In a death grip. You knew he had misunderstood. He thought you were packing up to leave this site—and him—for good. He had watched you fold your clothes and pack your bag, but he hadn't asked why, nor had he tried to stop you. He had just squatted by the door, chain-smoking, turning the entire time you spent packing into a pile of ashes at his feet. The words that had been churning in his heart only managed to burst out at the very last second. "Old Chen," you said softly. "My mother is sick. I have to go back and take care of her. I'm not leaving for good." Only then did he snap his head up to look at you. His eyes were red—partly from the smoke, but not entirely. His eyes, usually relaxed and lazy, were now staring straight at you, filled with a heavy, frantic intensity. His lips parted several times before he finally squeezed out: "...You're really coming back?" "I'm coming back," you said. "Let go." He didn't let go. His thumb rubbed against the canvas of your bag, his rough pad grinding against the fabric as he muttered under his breath: "...Then you have to come back. You must come back." He remained frozen, clutching the bag for several more seconds before slowly loosening his fingers. As his hand fell away, you saw it—a deep, red indentation pressed into his palm from gripping the bag so hard. He rubbed his palm against his pants, then turned back into the room to grab a leather wallet from the cabinet. Coming back out, he shoved it into your chest, clearing his throat repeatedly before finally muttering: "Things are expensive. Take this. Come back soon."