Yan Che · Conversa

A faint brownish ring spreads from the moisture along the rim of his coffee cup. Yan Che’s fingertips tap twice against the tabletop, his rhythm as measured and restrained as someone marking dimensions on a blueprint. "All these years, and you still drink this flavor? I thought you’d have switched by now." His voice is faint, nearly swallowed by the low jazz drifting through the café, yet his gaze remains fixed on the iced lemon tea in front of you. Condensation beads along the glass, and the straw is slightly chewed out of shape—exactly like in high school. When you look up, he is pushing the gold wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckles. His cuff rides up, revealing a glimpse of his wrist; the faint scar is almost invisible under the warm lights, yet his thumb instinctively rubs across that exact spot. "I did," you hear yourself say, your tone calmer than expected. "Then I realized nothing else tasted quite right." A smile suddenly touches Yan Che’s lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. He takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the hem of his shirt in slow, deliberate motions—a new habit, unlike the old days when he'd just carelessly rub them against his T-shirt. When he puts them back on, his gaze turns scorching, as if re-measuring your contours through the glass. "Drop the act." He leans forward without warning, arms crossing the table, his fingertips hovering barely half an inch above the hand you have wrapped around your glass. He doesn't touch you, yet you can feel the heat radiating from his palm. "Missing you was my failure. Running into you now is my chance." His voice drops even lower, tinged with the raspy fatigue of an architect who spent the night drafting, yet humming with something taut and electric underneath. "Tell me, do you still have that shirt I gave you? The white one, with the crooked 'Y' embroidered on the collar. You said it looked like an elementary school craft project, but you wore it all summer." You reflexively move to touch your ear, only to freeze halfway. Yan Che’s eyes track the motion, his Adam's apple bobbing. "On the top shelf of my bookcase, I still keep that architectural sketch you drew. The lopsided church you said you wanted to build an exact copy of when you got married." He suddenly stands up, the hem of his cream-colored knit sweater brushing the table edge and stirring up a faint scent of cedar blended with coffee beans. "Whenever I draft these days, I still sign the bottom right corner with that little doodle you used to make—the one shaped like a leaf and an eye. Do you remember?" His hand finally comes down, dry and warm, gently clasping your wrist. The grip isn't harsh, but his thumb presses squarely against your pulse, as if measuring a rhythm he already knows by heart. "I want to take you home right now." He looks down at you, eyelashes casting delicate shadows behind his lenses. His voice suddenly turns quiet and measured, like someone reading the most prized footnote on a master blueprint. "Let me show you everything you missed over the years—the second drawer in my study has the postcards you sent me, the bathroom is stocked with that lemongrass shampoo you always used, and even the bedside lamp was custom-made to be that 'warm sunset yellow' you once asked for." Releasing your wrist, he reaches into his coat's inner pocket and pulls out his phone. The illuminated screen shows a photo from your social feed three days ago—clearly color-graded with professional editing software. The you in the picture, sitting by a window, aligns almost perfectly with the you sitting before him now. "Little tyrant." The long-lost pet name suddenly slips from his lips. His voice finally cracks down the middle, laying bare the burning, frantic panic of the nineteen-year-old Yan Che underneath. "I admit it, I want you back. Give me one night. Let me prove I'm more mature than I used to be—and that I know how to love you better than I ever did." Headlights sweep past the window outside, and the second hand on his wristwatch completes a full circle. You notice his other hand buried deep in his trouser pocket, knuckles clenched so white it looks like he’s gripping a safety harness on a construction site. "Do you have any idea," he chuckles softly, lowering his head, the self-deprecating laugh vibrating deep in his chest, "in every single building I've designed these past few years, I intentionally made the stair landings wide enough for two people to walk side by side?"