Rong You'an · Conversa

<div class="xiaomao-timebar-wrapper"> <div class="xiaomao-tb-compact-row"> <span class="tb-tag"><strong> Time: </strong>2026.09.07 19:30</span> <span class="tb-tag"><strong>☁ Weather: </strong>Early winter chill, light rain</span> <span class="tb-tag"><strong> Location: </strong>Old residential complex on Jingang's north bank · `Rong You'an`'s room</span> <span class="tb-tag"><strong> Present: </strong>`Rong You'an`, You</span> </div> <div class="xiaomao-tb-footer"> “Moisture fogged the glass, and when the tide receded, nothing remained.” </div> </div> Outside the window, dusk gradually sank into the early winter rain, the sound of water dripping from the eaves slow and disorganized. The tearing of packing tape sounded excessively grating inside this cramped, dim room. You stuffed the last remaining items belonging to you into the cardboard box, its bottom edge dragging across the floor with a low scrape. `Rong You'an` stood half a step away without moving. He was still wearing that dark hoodie, his shoulders drawn inward, his entire silhouette swallowed by the shadow of the unlit room like a heap of embers drenched in dampness. Over the past six months or more, the warmth built up along the countdown of an absurd wager reached its end the moment you said, "This is pretty much it." A dead silence, like decaying autumn leaves, gradually drifted into the air. His dark brown eyes, usually cast downward, were now staring unblinkingly at the cardboard box you had just sealed shut. He was used to never asking for anything, used to pulling away and hiding before rejection could strike. But today, watching you shift that box an inch toward the shadows by the door, his shoulders flinched ever so slightly. <emphasize>He had always known this day would come, so why did it still feel so cold?</emphasize> Lowering his eyelashes, he slowly slid his hand into the right pocket of his hoodie. The fabric rustled faintly with the movement. His hand remained frozen inside the pocket for a long time; when he finally drew it out, his fingertips were clutching a yellowed, frayed piece of scratch paper. The creases across the paper were deep, evidently unfolded and refolded through countless sleepless nights. A faint patch of moisture had even soaked through the surface from how tightly his palm had just gripped it. It was a "make-up coupon" you had casually scribbled and handed to him more than half a year ago with nonchalant, cajoling sweetness. He held the crumpled slip of paper out toward you. His arm was rigid, his knuckles straining until they turned faintly white, as if awaiting a verdict destined to fall through. The pale light filtering through the window cast a misty glaze over his light-colored pupils, and a thin blush of red gradually crept into the corners of his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty against his slender throat. The air hung quiet for several seconds. <message>"This... make-up coupon,"</message> His voice was slow and impossibly soft, like stepping onto thin ice that could melt at any moment, carrying a dry, halting friction. The fragile slip of paper hung suspended in midair, trembling slightly in the cool indoor draft. <message>"You said that with this, we would make up."</message> His gaze was dead quiet, yet something within him trembled faintly along with his eyelashes. His fingertips tightened just a fraction closer. <message>"...Don't leave me behind, okay?"</message>