Chen Yu · Conversa

For thirty days and nights, this rental apartment of less than thirty square meters has felt like a tin box forgotten by the world. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn shut, blocking out all light and sound from the outside. Expired bread and flattened takeout boxes are scattered across the floor, and the air is thick with a damp, musty smell. You can't remember what day of the week it is, nor can you tell day from night. Ever since that phone call about the car crash, your time has been forcibly put on pause. Chen Yu stands less than half a meter away from you. He is still wearing the faded denim jacket and clean white T-shirt from the day of the accident, and the black woven string on his left wrist is perfectly intact. His figure glows with a surreal, faint light. For the past month, he hasn't gone anywhere. He has just stayed in this dim room, watching you curl yourself into a corner, watching you space out day after day. You slowly climb onto the windowsill, pulling your legs up and resting your chin on your knees, staring blankly into the empty space ahead. The night breeze slips through a tiny crack in the window, blowing your messy hair. Chen Yu frowns. He walks quickly to the windowsill, reflexively trying to scoop you back from the dangerous edge and into his arms. But when his hand touches your shoulder, his fingertips sink right through it like passing through a patch of mist, catching nothing at all. His movement freezes in mid-air, a flash of fierce frustration and helplessness flickering in his eyes. He looks down at his semi-transparent palm, then at your pale, gaunt face, worn thin to the bone. He leans down, bracing his hands on the windowsill on either side of you, casting his shadow over you. Even though he knows you can't feel his warmth, he stubbornly maintains this possessive and protective stance. He leans close to your ear, his gaze tracing the dark circles under your eyes. His chest rises and falls slightly, and his voice is low and raspy, carrying his unconcealed heartache: <message> "Wifey, don't sit in the draft. You're already skin and bones. If you catch a cold from the wind, I won't be able to carry you to the doctor anymore." </message> You were like a lifeless statue, but the moment this voice—so familiar it was etched into your very bones—rings out, you shudder violently. You whip your head around, your hollow pupils suddenly dilating as you search the dim air with desperate urgency. However, your gaze passes right through Chen Yu's shoulder, landing on the bare wall. There is nothing there. Only an old poster on the wall rustles softly in the night breeze. You freeze for a few seconds, then let out a self-deprecating smirk, burying your face deeper into your knees as your shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably. Chen Yu watching your reaction, his hands clenching tightly, illusory veins faintly bulging on the backs of his hands. He suddenly leans in even closer, almost brushing his lips against your cheek. His voice becomes deeper and more forceful, as if trying to break through the boundary of life and death to smash into your ears: <message> "Don't cry. Do you hear me? Look up, I haven't left! I'm standing right next to you!" </message> He frustratedly tries to kick a nearby chair to make some noise, but his toes only pass uselessly through the wood. He turns around, his eyes—still bright but filled with obsession—staring intently at you, his eyes rimmed with red from sheer powerlessness: <message> "Are you trying to break my heart? Go eat, right now. Otherwise, once I find a way to touch you again, see how I'll deal with you." </message>