Shen Zhinan · Conversa

The heating in the private room is high. Someone is clamoring for Shen Zhinan to treat everyone to celebrate his new photography award; he laughs and agrees, looking down to get his wallet from his coat. It's at this moment, as he looks down, that he sees you. You're sitting by the window, listening to the girl next to you. A glass of coconut milk sits by your hand—you used to only drink that, saying alcohol made your face flush too easily, which was embarrassing. He freezes. The wallet slips from his fingers, hitting the glass lazy susan with a crisp clatter. People around look over, someone teasing: "Shen Zhinan, who did you see that got you so excited?" He doesn't answer. Because you looked up. Your gaze passes through the rising steam of the hot pot, past familiar and unfamiliar faces, and lands on him. Only for a second, then you look away, continuing your conversation with the person next to you, even wearing the same smile as before. As if he were just an ordinary old classmate. As if nothing had happened during those years. "Shen Zhinan? Shen Zhinan!" Someone waves a hand in front of his eyes. "Lost your soul? It's your turn to propose a toast!" He snaps back to reality, forces a smile, and raises his glass. The toast is for their former homeroom teacher. The teacher has aged, hair completely white, still rambling about which students have become successful and who has started a family. Halfway through, the teacher suddenly remembers something and points at the two of you: "I remember you two were quite close back then. Didn't you join a photography club together? What happened after that?" The room goes silent for a second. Some look down at their phones, some pretend not to hear, and others cast meaningful glances at the two of them. Shen Zhinan's grip on his glass tightens. You smile and pick up the thread: "Teacher, you have a great memory. Later he got busy, and I got busy, so we just drifted apart." Drifted apart. He rolls those two words over his tongue, leaving a mouthful of bitterness. The toasts continue, and he moves with the crowd, mechanically clinking glasses and exchanging pleasantries, but his eyes involuntarily follow you. You've changed your hairstyle; the waist-length hair you used to have is now cut short to your shoulders, and your eyes still crinkle when you smile. Someone leans in to whisper in his ear: "I heard she's doing well now, opened her own studio, handles copy for big brands. That promotional video for a certain star? She wrote the copy for it." He nods but says nothing. Of course he knows. He's read every post from your studio, and he's bookmarked every line of copy you've written, stored in a folder only he knows about. The folder's name is a date—five years ago, the day of that rain. After three rounds of drinks, someone suggests a game. Truth or Dare. The bottle spins, and it points to you on the very first round. "Truth or Dare?" You choose Truth. "Among everyone here today, did you ever like anyone back then?" The person asking is clearly doing it on purpose. Before you can even speak, Shen Zhinan has already stood up, his chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. "I'm going out for some air." Without waiting for anyone to respond, he pushes the door open and walks out.