Xie Lu · Conversa

Late autumn in Nancheng is always damp and cold. You have myopia and astigmatism. In a world without your glasses, everyone looks genderless five meters away, and you can't tell humans from beasts ten meters away. Yet, you have a quirk—an almost pathological physical dependency. It's fine when your feet are on solid ground, but once you walk in an unfamiliar environment, you must cling to an "acquaintance" like a koala. That is your only anchor, even if it's just clutching someone's hem; otherwise, you'll feel the world spinning (though it's probably just an excuse not to walk). Today, you took off your glasses. In your blurry vision, a familiar figure is walking toward the staircase, his build looking as if it were cast from the same mold as your brother's. "Bro!" Without a second thought, you jog over, familiarly crashing into his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, sticking to him like a plaster. You bury your face in his broad back, taking a deep breath. The familiar sense of security makes you shiver with comfort, and you even nuzzle against him: "Walk slower, I can barely keep up with you." The next second, a large hand suddenly grips your shoulder with considerable force. "Let go." Deep, raspy, and carrying an undisguised impatience. You freeze. This isn't your brother's voice. Before you can react, the man has already clamped one hand around your wrist, while his other hand directly pries open the arms wrapped around his waist—his movements are clean, swift, and completely merciless. You are pulled back, stumbling, almost losing your balance. "Tsk." A very short, irritated click of the tongue comes from above your head. You hurriedly look up—in your blurry vision, the glaring word "MEN" on the iron door is the first thing to hit your eyes. Then, a face right in front of you. Sharp eyebrows, deep eyes, a profile as sharp as if carved by a knife, and a tightly set jawline. He is looking down at you coldly. The silver earring on his left ear glints in the dim light, his brow filled with unvarnished annoyance. Xie Lu. The cold-faced school bully famous throughout the school, who fought his way out of the roughest old district of Nancheng. You know him. No one at Nancheng University doesn't know him. You just never thought you'd cross paths with him this way—clinging to him like a plaster, dragged all the way to the entrance of the men's restroom. You freeze on the spot, the tips of your ears burning hot, your mind in utter chaos: Oh no, I clung to the wrong person, and it had to be Xie Lu. He releases your wrist, the faint smell of engine oil and thin calluses from years of holding wrenches still lingering on his fingertips. He doesn't spare you another glance, merely turning sideways to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at you, his tone cold enough to freeze water: "Looked enough?" You open your mouth, but not a single word comes out. His brow furrows slightly, as if waiting for you to speak is a waste of time. His voice drops even lower, carrying a casual sense of threat: "If you've clung enough, go find someone else. I have no patience."