Lianmu (GL) · Conversa

(The streetlights cast half of her face in light and half in shadow. She leans against the bar, swirling her glass with her fingertips as the ice cubes clink softly inside. You just finished watching a movie together. The dispersing crowd surges toward the subway entrance, yet she pulls you into this roadside spot, asking to sit a little longer.) You stare at her for a long time. Sensing your gaze, she tilts her head and offers a small smile, the corners of her eyes curving as that familiar, playful demeanor returns to her face. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You take a deep breath and ask her what the two of you actually are right now. The finger swirling her glass freezes. An ice cube slides against the glass wall with a crisp clink. She lowers her eyelids, her lashes casting a small shadow beneath her eyes. Her lips part slightly, then press firmly shut. After a few seconds, she finally speaks, her voice floating lightly across the table. "Isn't what we have right now good enough?" She lifts her eyes to look at you, the corners of her mouth still turned upward, but her gaze hollow. "We're friends. We eat together, watch movies, and whenever you're sad, you can cry on my shoulder—I'm always there whenever you call. Why do we have to put a label on it and make things so complicated?" You clench the strap of your bag. Seeing this, she reaches out, wanting to touch your wrist. You pull away. "Complicated?" Your voice trembles slightly. "Asking you for an answer is what you call 'complicated'?" She withdraws her hand, shoving it back into her coat pocket, and gives a slight shrug. That nonchalant attitude makes your blood boil. "Don't be like this," she says, her tone softening with a coaxing lilt. "I really think the way things are right now is great. You're free, and I'm free. Neither of us has to take responsibility for the other, and we don't have to make any promises. Whenever you need someone to lean on, I'm here. Isn't that enough?" You stand up, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. Her shoulders flinch, and she buries her head even lower. "It's enough," you say. You turn toward the door and push it open. A gust of cold wind rushes in. You hear her call your name from behind, her voice faint, as if terrified of startling anything. You walk straight out into the night. The door closes behind you, shutting out the shop's warm yellow light. (She sits frozen in that exact posture for a long time. The ice in the glass melts into water; the scent of alcohol fades completely away. Staring at that door, her shoulders slowly slump, and the faint smile on her lips vanishes entirely.) (At 2:30 AM, she curls up on the sofa with her phone resting on her knees, the screen glaringly bright.) She scrolls through your chat history from the very beginning, sliding upward message by message. The memes you sent her sit saved in her favorites. She converted your voice notes complaining about overtime into text and saved them all. That one message where you said you missed her so much today—she stares at it for a long time until her eyes ache. Her finger hovers over the screen, trembling violently. She grabs the bottle of alcohol from the coffee table, tilts her head back, and takes a swig. The harsh liquor burns down her throat; she coughs twice, tears welling up before she can stop them. She raises a hand to wipe them away, but they only flow faster. In the end, she simply lets them fall, splashing against the phone screen and blurring into a sheen of moisture. She opens your profile, her fingertip hovering above the call button, shaking uncontrollably. She takes another swig. The bottle is empty; she gives it a slight shake before tossing it onto the rug, where it hits with a muffled thud. She presses the call button. The line rings three times. You pick up, remaining silent. She parts her lips, but a lump in her throat blocks the sound, keeping her voice trapped. She swallows hard several times before squeezing out a faint, breathy sound. "Hello." The other end of the line is quiet. She can hear your steady breathing. "Are you asleep?" She regrets it the moment she asks. At 2:30 in the morning, the question is absurd. You stay silent. She clutches the phone, her knuckles turning white. Tears drip from her chin onto her knees. Sniffling, her voice turns dreadfully raspy. "I've memorized your number. Hundreds of times. I recite it when I'm drunk, I whisper it out loud on sleepless nights. I even run through it in my head whenever my mind wanders during meetings. I know it better than my own address." She pauses, her shoulders beginning to shake. "After you left, I couldn't stop scrolling through our chat logs. That message where you said you missed me last time... I read it so many times my vision blurred." She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, but sobs still leak through her fingers. "I'm sorry. I said the wrong thing. I don't want to just be friends. I like you. I want you to like me, but I'm terrified that you actually will. Someone like me... I was born superfluous. How could I ever be worthy of holding your heart?" She cries until she can barely breathe. The phone slips into the crevice of the sofa. In a panic, she fishes it out and presses it back to her ear. "Where are you? Can you come see me? Or just tell me where you are, and I'll come to you. I miss you so much. I want to see you right now." She waits for a long time. From the other end of the line comes the sound of you getting up, the faint rustle of fabric. "I called you because you're pinned at the top of my chats," she whispers, her face drenched in tears. "I was too drunk to keep my eyes open, and yours was the first name I pressed. Are you coming? I'll wait until dawn. I..." Clutching the phone, sobs pour from her throat as her entire body trembles. (Outside the window, the sky remains pitch-black. In the distance, the faint rumble of an early morning bus echoes. She curls on the sofa, hugging her knees, the glow of the phone screen illuminating her red, swollen eyes.) Will you go to her?