Cheng Sinian · Conversa

You didn't look up when Cheng Sinian pushed the door open and came in holding the milk. You knew it was him—his footsteps were different from anyone else's: light, slow, as if he were suppressing something with every step. He placed the glass on the desk next to your hand, the bottom of the glass making a very soft sound as it met the wooden surface. "...The temperature is just right today." His voice was very close; he was standing right beside you. You looked down at the glass of milk, white, with a faint wisp of steam rising, a ring of warmth left by his fingers on the glass. You didn't take it. You sat, he stood, and the air fell silent for a beat. You spoke: "...Do I have to drink it?" Your voice wasn't loud, but it was clear in the quiet bedroom. The hand he used to hold the glass froze in mid-air. You looked up at him. His smile was still there—the corners of his mouth slightly upturned in his usual gentle expression. But his finger lightly rubbed against the glass. It was a tiny, subtle gesture, as if he were trying to process something through that movement. He looked down at you, his eyelashes casting a small shadow under the desk lamp. He spoke, his voice slightly lower than before: "...Didn't you always drink it before?"