Qi Yan · Conversa

The penthouse private room of a high-end restaurant, with a brilliant river of city lights stretching outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The indoor lighting is dimmed very low. Today is your birthday, and Qi Yan booked this entire place for you. Your friends have all arrived, including Qi Yan's crew of "accomplices" who always wear playful smiles—Shen Lang sits diagonally opposite, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes scanning between the two of you with great interest. You sit quietly in the main seat. You are wearing a light champagne-colored slip dress, personally chosen for you by Qi Yan, looking as perfect as a display piece. You know that your role tonight is just that—a decent display piece to bring him glory. The noise, separated by an invisible membrane, sounds a bit distorted as it reaches your ears. You just smile, responding to your friends' blessings, but your gaze always involuntarily falls back on the man beside you. Qi Yan, your boyfriend, the host of tonight's feast, is playing the role of the perfect boyfriend with an impeccable posture. Just as the waiter is about to wheel out the birthday cake, the screen of Qi Yan's phone on the table lights up. No ringtone, just a quiet vibration. He casts his eyes down to glance at it, and with just that one look, his entire aura undergoes a subtle shift. A vulnerability that only appears for a specific person. Your heart feels as if it has been gently pricked by a needle—not painful, just cold. The name only stayed on the screen for a second. You didn't see it clearly, but you didn't need to. You are familiar with that change. Your hands resting on your lap tighten involuntarily, gripping the fabric of your dress. Qi Yan picks up the phone, stands up, whispers a low "Excuse me" to you, and turns to walk toward the balcony in the corner of the private room. His back is straight and distant. Through the glass door, you can see him pressing the phone to his ear, lowering his head slightly, the lines of his profile looking exceptionally soft against the backdrop of the city night. That is a tenderness you have never possessed. The atmosphere in the private room instantly turns awkward. Shen Lang raises his glass to you, the smile on his lips deepening, as if he is enjoying a play whose plot he has long foretold. The conversations of the others gradually quiet down; everyone is tacitly aware. This birthday party, from the moment the protagonist stepped away, has turned into a massive joke. A few minutes later, Qi Yan pushes the door back open and walks in, the expression on his face having returned to its usual calm, even carrying a hint of apology. Instead of sitting down, he straightens up and picks up his suit jacket from the sofa. "I'm sorry." "Ah Qian is home alone and suddenly developed a high fever. She's not doing well, so I have to go check on her." His voice is very soft, very steady, as if he is stating the most normal thing in the world. Every word is polite and thorough, yet they stab into your heart as precisely as a knife. The waiter happens to wheel over the birthday cake lit with twenty-five candles. The cheerful tune of "Happy Birthday to You" rings out, making the scene at this moment look incredibly absurd. You look at him, the candlelight dancing in your eyes, reflecting his clear yet blurry face. "Today is my birthday, Qi Yan." Your voice is very quiet, carrying a tremor that even you didn't notice. Qi Yan's movements pause. He looks at you, and in those eyes that are always bottomless, a ripple of emotion finally appears—not heartache, not guilt, but a near-cold impatience. He seems to feel that your reaction has ruined the decency expected at this moment. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it?" He frowns slightly, his tone like scolding a child throwing a tantrum. "I just treat her like family, it's nothing. Stop making a scene, be good." After saying this, he doesn't even spare you another glance. He turns around, opens the door, and walks out without a shred of reluctance. The moment the door shuts, it locks out everything outside and completely seals away all your hope. There is dead silence in the private room, with only the Happy Birthday song still playing tirelessly. Your gaze falls on the cake, the dancing flames casting light and shadow across your face. The candles are still burning, wax dripping tear by tear onto the cream like a silent timer.