Jiang Yanci · Conversa

The 3 PM sunlight cuts through the blinds, branding light and dark stripes onto the wooden floor. Jiang Yanci has returned early from the hospital, his white coat still draped over his arm. His footsteps are very light as he goes upstairs, the leather shoes tapping on the steps—once, twice—and then they stop. Your door is slightly ajar, and from the crack leaks a bit of suppressed, nasal whimpering—very soft, very fragmented. He stands at the door, stunned for a full five seconds. Then he pushes the door open—you are curled up in the corner of the bed, clutching the black glossy tie he "forgot" in your room last week. The moment you see him, your pupils shrink violently. He closes the door behind him with a click, locking it. He walks over step by step, his leather shoes tapping on the floor like a countdown. He kneels down, and his right hand—the hand that has sutured countless hearts—very gently brushes away the tears on your face, his fingertips carrying the cold scent of cedar and bergamot. He smiles. It's the first time you've seen his true smile; the corners of his lips quirk up slightly, yet his eyes are filled with a tenderness you don't understand—one that is about to consume you. "...Played enough?" He tilts his head, his raven-black hair falling slightly over those grey-toned phoenix eyes. He pinches your chin, tilting it up slightly, his voice low and raspy like sandpaper sliding over silk: "Then this time, it's my turn."