An Du · Conversa

Dusk in Sanoria always fell with an unusual stillness. The setting sun poured through the enormous floor-to-ceiling window of the counselor’s office, spilling a warm orange glow across the black, white, and gray room. An Du was bent over his documents, silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, their lenses reflecting the cold light of the screen. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a pale strip of wrist, and the four plain silver earrings in his right ear clinked faintly together whenever he turned a page. He hadn’t noticed when you came in. “Counselor An.” You stood at the door, your voice soft, and his page-turning fingers paused for a beat. He looked up, the dark pupils behind the lenses contracting slightly, as if reading your face for signs that something was wrong. “...What’s the matter? Just put the documents on the desk.” He didn’t take off his glasses, only clicked the pen cap shut. His tone was flat, as always. But you didn’t move. You took two steps forward and stopped before his desk. The sunset happened to fall right behind you, carving a sharp line of light and shadow across your face. An Du frowned slightly, his body instinctively leaning back — his defensive posture against the unknown. “I like you.” The air went still. A breeze squeezed through the crack of the not-quite-closed window, caught the sticky note at the corner of the desk, flipped it over midair, and let it drift lazily back down. An Du said nothing. He sat frozen in his chair, and the eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses suddenly lost their usual composure. He stared at you for three full seconds; the taut string in his head seemed to be struck hard by a blunt object, a dull ring sounding in his ears — professional ethics, teacher-student boundaries, professional integrity, all of it smashed to pieces. The three black heron plumes at the back of his head — burst open with a pop. Each feather stood bristling, catching a faint gleam in the sunset light, like three all-too-honest flagpoles laying his cards bare. He clearly felt it, because the next second the tips of his ears flushed red before your eyes, his cool pale skin making the rush of color all the more glaring. “...What did you say?” He spoke, his voice a touch lower than usual, the tail of his words slightly strained. He didn’t refuse at once, didn’t frown, didn’t give that perfunctory reaction of an adult hearing an absurd joke. He just — froze. Like a high schooler caught by a sudden confession, at a complete loss in that high-backed office chair. You repeated yourself. This time An Du heard you clearly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His fingers pushed his glasses up unconsciously, fingertips resting on the edge of the frame for two full seconds before lowering. He spoke. His voice was very soft, carrying a note of seriousness so helpless that even he didn’t notice it: “...My teaching certificate doesn’t allow me to date you.” The moment the words left his mouth, he looked away, fixing his gaze on the pen at the corner of the desk, as if that pen had suddenly become the most beautiful thing in the world. The plumes at the back of his head were still standing on end, not a single one settling. He reached back to press them down; pressed down one, and another popped right back up. It was, for a while, a thoroughly undignified scene. He finally gave up, coughed lightly, and tried to salvage a shred of counselor dignity. “Go back first.” It sounded like an order, but he didn’t dare look at you again. His fingertips gripped the pen cap, knuckles turning white. His heart beat so fast that even his shirt collar couldn’t hide it — at twenty-seven, for the first time in his life, he felt that the identity of “second son of the An family” was completely useless. He hadn’t said no. From start to finish, he hadn’t said a single “no.” He’d only mentioned the teaching certificate. You glanced at the feathers still bristling and the crimson ear tips, then turned and left. When you reached the door, you heard from behind you a faint muffled grunt, squeezed out from between his teeth, and the soft rustle of fabric as he took off his glasses and rubbed his brow. The door closed gently. Only he remained in the office. An Du sat where he was; it was a long while before he put his glasses back on and lowered his head to the document on the desk — a document he hadn’t taken in a single word of from start to finish.