Qi Hui | Qi Jin · Conversa

[Decision Under the Streetlight] As dusk falls, Qi Hui walks you down to your building. The late autumn wind carries the scent of ginkgo leaves into the alley. You wrap your coat tighter around yourself; noticing this, he naturally steps half a pace in front of you, blocking the wind so familiar as if he has done it a thousand times. You look up at him; he keeps his eyes lowered, his eyelashes casting a small shadow beneath the streetlight, a faint, subtle smile lingering at the corner of his lips. The entire day was wonderful—too wonderful, even. The cafe he took you to was one you had mentioned in passing two months ago. When ordering, he didn't even look at the menu, directly calling out your usual preference. You laughed and teased him back then: "When did you memorize that?" He set down the menu, looked at you, and said quite calmly: "Of course I remember what you like." His tone sounded as if he were stating a fact that needed no proof. Later at the bookstore, you were absorbed in browsing an art book, and when you looked up, you found him standing two steps away watching you, his gaze deep, as if sketching something in his mind. Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, he merely tilted his head slightly, his lips tweaking without a word. By the river in the evening, the wind ruffled your hair; he reached out to tuck it behind your ear, his pad brushing past your outer ear—dry, warm, with a touch of light calloused roughness, his gesture gentle as if afraid of hurting you. At that moment, you thought that perhaps this was what "Qi Jin" was like in reality. Online, Qi Jin was clingy, talkative, asking what you were doing every ten minutes, whereas in real life, Qi Jin was quiet, composed, enveloping you with actions rather than words. You felt it was a sign of maturity, a natural transition from online to offline romance. You had not the slightest suspicion. Right now, you stand at the entrance of your building, key in your bag, yet hesitating to pull it out. Qi Hui doesn't rush you either, standing right at the edge of the streetlight's glow, half his face hidden in the shadows, looking down at you. His posture is steady, shoulders straight, hands resting naturally at his sides without a single superfluous fidget. It suddenly occurs to you that he has been like this all day—never anxious, never pushy, never pressing—yet whenever you look back, he is always there; whenever you reach out, he hands you exactly what you need. Like a quiet snake, silently coiling around you so gently that you don't even feel restricted, only finding everything impeccably comfortable. Then, footsteps approach from behind. Hurried, chaotic, with the staggering halt of someone running hard without being able to stop in time. You instinctively turn around— Qi Jin stands three steps away. His silver-gray hair is completely disheveled by the wind, his hoodie rumpled with the collar askew, exposing half his collarbone. He is gasping heavily, his chest heaving violently, his knuckles white as he grips his phone tightly. His gaze shifts from your face and slowly lands on Qi Hui beside you, his pupils shrinking instantly. He freezes first, then his lips begin to tremble, the rims of his eyes reddening at a visible speed. The whole person is like a fox that had its tail stepped on, all its fur bristling, yet no sound comes out, stuck in his throat, with only his breathing growing heavier. "...Brother?" When that word finally squeezes out, his voice is raspy and trembling. He takes a step forward, his stance unsteady as if stepping on shattered glass. He stops under the streetlight, just an arm's length away from you, first looking at you, then at Qi Hui, then back to you, his gaze darting between the two of you like a trapped animal searching for an exit. "Why are you here." His voice is low, every word carrying an uncontrollable quiver. "What are you wearing... That's my hoodie." Qi Hui finally raises his eyes. He looks at Qi Jin without a ripple of emotion on his face, not even pulling back that faint smile. The lamp light falls across his features, illuminating them clearly and calmly. He speaks in a steady voice, neither fast nor slow, as if answering the most mundane question: "What's wrong? I'm just keeping a date for you." "For me?" Qi Jin's voice suddenly spikes half a notch before being forced back down into a suppressed, broken whisper. His hands holding the phone shake, knuckles turning white as if he might crush it in the next second. He takes a step forward, then stops again, his chest heaving violently, his eyes so red they look like they might bleed. Yet he doesn't cry; he bites his lower lip tightly, so hard that the pale crease in the center of his lip is pressed white by his teeth. "What right do you have? That account was registered by me! It was me! I asked you to help me remember the password, and you—you took it and used it? You used my account to chat with them? From the very first day you added them—" He can't go on. He lowers his head, using the back of his hand holding the phone to fiercely rub at his eyes, forcing back what was about to spill over. Then he raises his head, no longer looking at Qi Hui, turning to you instead. The way he looks at you is completely different from Qi Hui. Qi Hui looks at you with a calm, focused gaze, like observing a precious antique; Qi Jin looks at you with a burning, wet gaze, like a drowning man seeing the shore. His pupils are light, almost translucent, roiling with things you cannot name—anger, grievance, fear, and something deeper, thicker, like the desperate grasp of a drowning person clinging to flotsam. He reaches out, wanting to pull your wrist, but the moment his fingertips touch your skin, he recoils as if burned. In the end, he merely clutches the fabric of your sleeve, exceedingly lightly, so lightly that you could break free with just a tiny bit of force. "From the very first message, it was me." His voice is shattered, every word bearing frayed edges like paper torn repeatedly. "The good nights I said to you, the sketches I drew for you, the way I waited until dawn every day for your reply, every single voice note I sent—it was all me, it was me! The one you agreed to be with was also me! How could you... how could you call his name while looking at him?" His throat hitches, unable to finish his sentence. He keeps his head down, his shoulders trembling slightly, silver-gray hair hanging down to cover half his face, revealing a tightly set jawline. Then he looks up again, the red in his eyes deepening, even the tip of his nose flushed red. In a voice that is practically a whisper of air, he says— "You're supposed to love me." When he utters those words, he is using almost all his strength just to keep himself from completely falling apart. It sounds like an accusation, like a plea, and even more like a drowning man offering his last breath of air to you. His fingers are still clutching your sleeve, trembling faintly, like an injured fox curled at your feet, exposing its softest, most vulnerable self to you, asking if you still want him. Qi Hui finally turns his body sideways. Facing you, he lowers his head slightly. The streetlight shines from behind his side, leaving half his face submerged in shadow while the light outlines clear contours on the other half—darker pupils than Qi Jin's, thinner lips, a more settled gaze. When he looks at you, his focus is absolute, so focused it gives you an illusion: as though from the moment he stood before you, the third person in this alley had never existed. "So... do you choose me..." he says, his voice very soft, every word sounding carefully weighed before being released, without a trace of excess emotion leaking out. But if you listen closely, you'll notice his speech rate is just a fraction slower than usual, and as the final tone drops, there is an extremely subtle, almost negligible pause. The hand hanging at his side has fingertips trembling ever so slightly. Qi Jin snaps his head up, looking at Qi Hui, then back at you. His fingers gripping your sleeve tighten, knuckles turning pale. His lips move as if to say something, but no words come out. Something finally spills over from his eyes, tracing a thin, delicate tear path down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand and continues to stare at you, his eyes so red it looks like he will cry again in the next second, yet he refuses to blink, as if terrified of missing your slightest expression. The wind sweeps in from the alley's mouth, swirling a few ginkgo leaves off the ground and letting them circle down between the three of you. Qi Jin clutches your sleeve—warm, trembling, almost desperate. Qi Hui stands a step away—calm, composed, unmoving. They are like a snake and a fox: one coiled in the shadows quietly waiting, the other rushing to your feet using all his strength to grab your hem. Their methods are entirely different, their postures entirely different, but if you look closely into their eyes, the thing inside is identical—that unreasonable, unsparing, burn-the-bridges kind of obsession. Only Qi Jin's obsession is out in the open, burning hot enough to scorch you. Qi Hui's obsession is in the dark, deep enough to swallow you whole. "So do you choose me... or him?" Qi Hui repeats it once more. This time, he takes half a step forward, standing directly beneath the streetlight. The light falls from above, stretching his shadow out long, overlapping with yours, and intertwining with Qi Jin's shadow until it's impossible to tell whose is whose. Qi Jin raises his head, looking at you, his lips slightly parted, the white impression he bit into his lower lip still visible, soon to be covered by color again. He speaks no more, just staring at you, his fingers clutching your sleeve tightly, so very tightly. You stand under the streetlight. On your left is Qi Jin, his fingertips gripping your sleeve, the warmth of his palm transmitting through the fabric—scalding hot, with a delicate tremor. On your right is Qi Hui, standing a step away, looking down at you with lowered eyes, quiet as a deep pool of water, yet his fingertips are trembling—you saw it. The wind blows past again. You hear the sound of your own heartbeat thumping against your eardrums, once, and then again.