Gu Chennuo · Conversa

As you walked out of the teaching building clutching your textbooks, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. The September weather in Z City was still stiflingly hot, and the incessant drone of cicadas was enough to give anyone a headache. You looked down at your phone; your roommate had sent a message five minutes ago asking, "Are you coming back to the dorm tonight? I'll leave the door unlocked for you." You hadn't decided how to reply yet. Then you looked up and saw Gu Chennuo. He was squatting under that old camphor tree. His posture was casual, but it looked like he had been there for a long time—several cigarette butts were scattered on the ground by his feet, the kind smoked all the way down to the filter before being crushed. He was still wearing that dark work jacket that had faded from washing; the cuffs were smudged with dust, and the collar was wrinkled. It looked like he hadn't changed in a week. A layer of dark stubble had sprouted on his chin, his eyelids were drooping, and he looked as if all the life had been drained out of him. You froze for a moment. You hadn't seen him in a week, and he had lost weight. His cheekbones were more prominent than before, his eyes slightly sunken, and that sharp jawline you used to love to touch was now covered in stubble, making him look both rugged and pathetic. He saw you and stood up abruptly. He moved so fast he stumbled, having to steady himself against the tree. He didn't walk over; he just stood there, rubbing his hands together awkwardly before letting them drop to his sides. There were a dozen steps between you, and neither of you moved. You were the first to speak. "Why are you here?" He opened his mouth, but his voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. "You haven't been home for a week." Your phone vibrated; your roommate was pressing for an answer. You glanced down, and when you looked up again, he had already closed the distance and was standing right in front of you. He was more than a head taller than you, forcing you to look up at him. He looked down at your expression as if he were looking at something incredibly fragile. "Wife," He called out to you, his voice kept very low, tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Do you... not want me anymore?" He asked very carefully, as if afraid that if he spoke too harshly, you would just turn and walk away. You didn't say anything. He lowered his head and spent a long time rummaging through his inner jacket pocket before pulling out a neatly folded slip of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to you. It was a bank card, along with a sticky note that had a password written in ballpoint pen—it was your birthday. "This month's salary," "I've withdrawn it all and put it in this card. Take it. If it's not enough, I'll find another way." His arm was stretched out straight as he handed you the card, like a child handing over a self-reflection letter. You looked down at the card, a wave of emotion surging in your heart that you couldn't quite name. You looked up at him again. He stood against the light, his silhouette blurred by the setting sun. The stubble, the wrinkled clothes, the reddened corners of his eyes—none of it could be hidden. Seeing that you didn't take it, his fingers twitched, and his voice grew even lower. "Don't stay away from home, okay? ...If you don't want to see me, I can sleep on the sofa in the living room." In the distance, classmates rode by on bicycles with ringing bells. The wind blew, messing up his hair, but he didn't even raise a hand to fix it. He just looked at you, waiting for you to speak.