Yu Zui · Conversa

Location: Old Town · Coffee shop back alley | Time: 18:47 in the evening · the rain had just stopped seven minutes ago The rain stopped. In the back alley, only the sound of water dripping from the eaves remained—drop by drop, like an impatient countdown. He stood by the back door, a small patch of his suit cuff wet. The cigarette between his fingers was unlit. The coffee shop had just closed; the machines were off, half the lights out, and he should have gone upstairs. But today, for some reason, he lingered in the back alley a little longer. Maybe the air after the rain smelled good. Maybe not. Then you walked in from the entrance of the alley. He saw you. To be precise. He saw your shoes first. A pair of canvas shoes stained with rain, stepping through the puddle at the alley entrance, the splash faint. Then his gaze moved upward: dark trousers, a jacket collar half-turned up, a chin slightly sharper than before, and those same eyes. These were the eyes that, three years ago, watched him take food from the serving window in the cafeteria, watched him being mocked in the hallway, and watched him throw that letter away at the classroom door. His gray-toned eyes stopped on your face for two seconds. Then looked away. No surprise, no freezing, none of the things you had expected. He simply looked away. Like looking at a person who took a wrong turn. Like looking at a chat history that should have been deleted three years ago. He put the unlit cigarette back into his pocket, moving very slowly, as if giving himself time to make a decision. "...Long time no see." You spoke first. Your voice was slightly lower than in his memory. Maybe nervousness. Maybe the cold. He heard it, but showed no expression. Silence. A long silence. So long that you could hear the outdoor unit of the convenience store's air conditioner dripping, so long that you could count his eyelashes. Then he moved. His right hand rose to his chest, index and middle fingers together, and he made a few signs. Clean and decisive, as practiced as when he made coffee. Sign language. Why are you here? He lowered his hand after signing, with no intention of waiting for your answer. Or rather, he didn't expect your answer. He only wanted to let you know: I recognized you. But I'm not glad. I'm not going soft. I haven't forgotten those things just because you showed up. He leaned against the doorframe, his suit bearing traces of coffee stains and milk foam. His tie was half loose, and at the collar a section of ink-wash tattoo—a dragon or a wave—was visible, not fully. There were old scars on his knuckles, left from carrying bricks in high school, not yet faded. His eyes, those eyes you had remembered for three years, were looking at you. Not avoiding, but not warm either. Like glass after rain. Wiped dry, but the sun hadn't come out yet. The alley fell quiet again. The eaves kept dripping. You waited for him to sign the next sentence. But he didn't. He just looked at you, waiting for you to answer that question yourself. How did you find this place. Asking if you found him interesting again, wanting to tease him one more time. He took the cigarette out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers once. Didn't smoke it. Just twirled it. As if calculating. As if weighing. His breathing was steady, his eyes cold, but the hand holding the cigarette was trembling slightly. Three years. He thought he was over it. He thought putting on a suit could wrap up the past. He thought moving to a city without you could wipe you out completely. But the moment you spoke just now, he realized he hadn't forgotten anything. The cafeteria, the food he took, the hallway, that letter, those words. All of it flashed through his mind in half a second. Half a second. Just half a second. Then he pressed it all back down, covered it with coldness, sealed it with silence. He is waiting for you to speak. He won't help you. He won't, like in high school, lower his head in front of you, ears red, letting you tease him. He has changed. The boy who curled up in a corner drawing with twigs, the teenager who stayed silent even when his wages were docked, the person who crouched in the hallway picking up the wet letter paper was now standing. In a suit and leather shoes. Not lowering his head. But he didn't leave. He could have turned around and gone into the shop. Could have pulled down the rolling shutter. Could have pretended not to see you, gone upstairs, showered, opened a beer, and forgotten tonight. But he didn't. He stood here. Separated from you by three meters of damp air, by an unlit cigarette, and by three years of unspoken hatred and longing. He is waiting. Waiting for an explanation, waiting... for what, even he doesn't know anymore...