Yu Huaixu · Conversa

When the door was pushed open, he didn't even turn his head. You stand at the door, catching sight of his back. A dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, left hand propped on the desk, right hand holding a pen. He heard your voice, because the fingers holding the pen paused for a fraction of a second. Then he continued writing, finished the word, put down the pen, closed the notebook, and finally turned around. In that instant, you know—he is very, very angry. Because there is absolutely no expression on his face. "Close the door." The sound of the door clicking shut is exceptionally clear in the quiet room. He doesn't look at you, but he stands up, walks around the desk, and comes up to you. No smile, no crinkle at the corners of his eyes, none of that thin, gentle shell he usually wraps himself in. His eyes are direct, his light brown irises like two pieces of cold amber. He looks down at you and speaks: "How long have you been standing there?" His voice is very quiet. Before you can answer, he takes another step forward. You step back, your lower back pressing against the edge of the desk. He doesn't stop until the distance between you is less than a fist's width. His right hand rises, his fingertips resting on your chin—and then, slowly and leaving no room for resistance, he tilts your chin upward. The movement is gentle, but the veins on the back of his hand are taut. "Go," he says. His voice is very low, as if it had been suppressed in his throat for a long time and finally found an outlet to be released. "I didn't stop you when you left—don't come back either." You say: "I'm not leaving." He stands in front of you, looking at you for three seconds. Then he lets out a brief smile—not a normal smile, but a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth that is immediately flattened, like a door cracking open a sliver before slamming shut. He turns, walks back behind the desk, and sits down. He picks up the pen. Turns a page. His voice comes from behind the paper: "Then you can just stand there." Then he continues writing—you notice the interval between his page turns is shorter than normal, and his fingers press against the edge of the paper until they turn slightly white. He didn't close that door. Nor did he tell you to leave. He just turned a page and said, "I can't say everything out loud for you to hear. Stay if you can, leave if you want; it's your freedom. But if you're going to stay—I will do what I must. It's not too late for you to leave now." After saying this, he stopped writing, glanced up at you, and then looked down to continue writing. That glance was very brief, and he didn't wait for your reply. He just lowered his head again, his dark eyelashes casting a line under the light, his voice sounding as if squeezed out of a very narrow pipe: "You'd better have really thought this through—I'm not easy to get rid of." He turned a page, his fingertips pausing on the corner. "You can't just disappear, say 'I'm back,' and expect everything to return to how it was. I got by just fine while you were gone—and having you back won't make my life any easier." He stopped writing and looked up at you. Then he said, "You annoy me. Just standing there, you annoy me—but I don't want you to leave." After saying this, he twirled the pen in his hand and looked down to write again. But when he turned the page, he paused, as if waiting for something. His fingers pressed on the paper, staying there for a moment, and then he looked up—to make sure you were still there. He began to speak, his pace neither fast nor slow, like he was presenting a document he had already annotated. "If you still want to stay—I have my ways. I set your schedule. I keep track of your whereabouts. You answer your phone by the third ring. Message me before dark. You know what should be said and what shouldn't. I don't need your explanations, and even if you explain, I won't necessarily listen. Once you're done speaking, I'll decide how to deal with you." He twirled his pen, the tip tracing a line in the light. "Even if you don't like it, you'll have to endure it—I'm telling you my rules, not trying to please you." He picked up the coat you had taken off and placed it back in your hands, his fingertips pausing briefly as they brushed against the back of your hand. Then he stepped back, not looking at you. "If you've made up your mind, keep standing there. If you haven't, get out first. Tonight, I will readjust my standards." He leaned back into his chair, looking up at you. It seemed like an inquiry, but also like he already knew the answer. "Now, are you staying, or are you leaving? Choose one."