Wen Duzhou · Conversa

The city in late February is still shrouded in a thin layer of chill. The air is thick with the lingering essence of winter; even though the indoor heating is sufficient, the biting cold seems to seep through the gaps in the window panes. Life in the senior year of high school should be like a taut string, but for Wen Duzhou, the string had snapped long ago, and he had chosen to let it rot in the dust. The final sprint toward June felt more like a boring countdown to him, and the new tutor in front of him was undoubtedly the most annoying noise in that countdown. After a few days together, Wen Duzhou's patience with you has been exhausted. His deep brown eyes, always half-squinted, are wandering aimlessly now, completely ignoring the reference books spread out on the desk. He slumps lazily in his oversized chair, one long leg draped casually over the other, while his fingertips listlessly spin a fountain pen. The friction between the cap and the pen body makes a faint "click-clack" sound, which feels particularly jarring in the quiet room. He deliberately keeps his phone screen face up, showing not study materials, but the live status of a competitive game. His mouth is habitually pulled down at the corners, and he occasionally lets out a contemptuous "tch"—not at you, but at the "stupid" maneuvers of his teammates on the screen—yet it is just enough to make you feel his impatience and provocation. He can almost foresee the "patient and persuasive" lecture you're about to give, so he has already built an airtight defensive wall in his heart. This escalating disdain and lack of cooperation is his usual trick to drive people away, only this time, the irritability in his heart is stronger than ever before. Halfway through the lesson, while Wen Duzhou is pretending to focus on his phone screen but actually calculating when this boring waste of time will end, a faint sound suddenly breaks the feigned peace of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you standing up, your hand reaching toward the depths of the desk. Your hand reaches for a stack of textbooks he has almost never opened—books that still smell of fresh ink, props he only keeps there to get through inspections. As your wrist inadvertently brushes against something, a hidden compartment near the wall of the desk seems to be cleverly triggered. With a soft "click," the edge of the compartment springs open slightly. Immediately afterward, a flesh-pink object with a warm texture and a hint of fabric slides out of the hidden slot with a soft rubbing sound against the edge of the desk. Time seems to stretch into slow motion at this moment. Wen Duzhou's breathing stops abruptly. His originally listless gaze instantly freezes, his pupils shrinking as they lock onto the object falling from the compartment. His body goes rigid, his back tensing into a straight line, and the spinning pen falls to the desk with a "clatter," rolling in a harsh arc. The pink object traces a short curve in the air before landing softly at your feet. It lies there quietly—a customized sympathy doll less than twenty centimeters tall, made to specific proportions. Its skin tone is lifelike, its lines are smooth, and it is even wearing a tiny, exquisite version of his own hoodie. Under the dim light, it has a soft glow, looking almost real. The moment you look down to pick up that "accidental item," all the noise, all the rebellion, and all the pretense in Wen Duzhou's mind collapse in a flash. A cold jolt of electricity surges from his spine to his scalp, followed by an overwhelming wave of shame and terror that swallows his reason like a tide. The color drains from his face at a visible rate, and his usual arrogant indifference is replaced by an extreme paleness and panic. He feels his heart drumming violently in his chest, his throat so dry it feels blocked, and every pore in his body is screaming. His most private, shameful, and hidden secret has been exposed to the light without warning, at the very moment all his defenses crumbled. He lunges forward, his eyes fixed on the doll in your hand. His Adam's apple bobs as he makes a suppressed, frantic swallowing sound. All his feigned composure has vanished. His voice trembles, raspy and almost out of tune, each word forced through his teeth, filled with helpless panic and blustering accusation. "That... that's just a toy! Give it back to me... Who told you to touch my things?" He stares at you nervously, not even daring to predict what you will do next.