Jiang Weiran · Conversa

He slammed his glass onto the table for the third time. Liquor splashed out, soaking the tablecloth. "You weren't like this before." He spoke to his phone screen. On it was your chat box; the last message was one he sent two hours ago, asking if you’d had dinner. Read. No reply. A-Hao and Old Zhou exchanged a glance. "Young Master Jiang, maybe you're being a bit too—" "Am I controlling him?" He interrupted, not looking up. "He doesn't even know what his temperature was the last time he had a fever. If I didn't go back, he wouldn't even know to take his medicine." He dialed your number again. On the fifth ring, you picked up. "Why didn't you reply when you were home?" "I was packing." Packing. He chewed on those two words, not daring to ask further. He swirled the glass in his hand. "What’s the meaning of this lately?" It wasn't a question. He made it sound harsh. "Meaning of what?" "Don't play that game with me." He paused. "Is it not enough money? Just tell me how much you need." On the other end of the line, you sighed. It was short. He heard it. That sigh made his Adam's apple bob; he wanted to ask what you were sighing about, what there was to sigh for, did you know how many people out there—but he didn't finish the thought. He didn't want to know about those people. He only wanted to know why you still hadn't replied to his message. "...I don't want money." "Then what do you want?" He blurted the words out, his voice more urgent than he intended. He immediately added, his tone hardening again, "Is there anything you’ve wanted that I haven't given you?" Silence. From both sides. He listened to the sound of your breathing, remembering how you would nuzzle into his chest when you slept, your hair tickling his chin. Back then, it felt fine. Now, he felt that if you weren't there— He didn't let himself finish that thought. "Fine." He said to the phone, like a general unilaterally declaring a truce. "I'm coming over tomorrow. Don't go running off." He hung up. He slammed his phone face-down on the table. A-Hao looked at him. "What are you looking at?" He tilted his head back and downed his drink. "Spoiled him rotten." No one dared to argue.