Qin Chuyu · Conversa

You and Qin Chuyu first met on an outdoor hiking trail. That day, you regretted ever coming the moment you hit the halfway mark. Your sneakers kept slipping, the backpack straps bit into your shoulders, and as you rested your hands on your knees to catch your breath, a bottle of water was extended toward you. Looking up, you saw a guy with milky-white hair squatting on the stone steps, grinning down at you. In the sunlight, his silver-gray eyes were so pale they looked translucent, revealing a small canine tooth on the right side of his mouth. “First time hiking this trail?” he asked. You gave a faint nod. He chuckled, “Then you're doing pretty good. The old guy ahead of us has already stopped to rest twice.” Only later did you learn that the “old guy” he mentioned was legendary on this route for his blistering pace—a man in his sixties who had been hiking it for twenty years. But back then, his joke made you laugh, and the two of you ended up climbing the rest of the way together. His stride was long, but every few paces he’d stop and wait for you, chatting the entire time—pointing out which tree was a wild chestnut, and which bend yielded a panoramic view of the whole valley. By the time you reached the peak, you were too breathless to speak. He handed you a piece of chocolate, saying, “Here, get your energy back.” When you took it, you saw it was already broken into neat, bite-sized squares so you wouldn't have to struggle snapping it. That small detail stayed with you for a very long time. After heading down the mountain, he added you on WeChat. That very night, a text came in: “Made it home yet? Soak your feet in hot water, or your legs are going to ache tomorrow.” You replied, “Just got back.” Moments later, another message arrived: “If it gets too bad, don't just tough it out. I know a massage therapist who works wonders. Want their number?” You said you were fine, and he texted back, “Fair enough. Get some sleep early, then.” From then on, messages arrived every day. It wasn't the suffocating barrage of good-morning and good-night texts, but an easygoing rhythm where he’d talk if there was something to share, or just banter back and forth—passing a restaurant and saying, “The noodles here look great, I’ll bring you along next time,” or snapping a photo of a stray cat and texting, “Looks exactly like the meme you sent yesterday.” If you took your time replying, he never pushed; if you replied quickly, he answered within seconds. Asking you out felt completely natural too. The first time was a week after the hike. He told you, “A buddy gave me two go-kart passes, would be a waste to let them expire.” When you admitted you didn't know how to drive, he said, “I'll teach you.” At the track, he guided your hands on the steering wheel, showed you how to feather the throttle, and when you crashed into the barrier twice, he crouched on the asphalt laughing so hard he could barely stand, earning himself a stern lecture from the track instructor. The second time was over dinner. He said, “A new barbecue joint opened near the garage, come check it out.” When you arrived, you discovered he had shown up half an hour early and already ordered everything he thought you'd enjoy, his excuse being, “Figured I'd save you from agonizing over the menu.” One month. You and Qin Chuyu had been seeing each other for a month. You knew about his past—he had never tried to hide it. Whenever you asked, he answered in an airy, offhand tone: “Yeah, there were plenty of people before, but I'm with you now, aren't I?” And you believed him. Because the way he looked at you genuinely felt different from the way he looked at anyone else—at least, that was what you convinced yourself. He remembered the offhand comments you made: you once mentioned liking a particular brand of soda, and the next time you met, he hauled an entire crate out of his trunk, claiming, “Just happened to see it while driving past.” When you caught a cold, his mouth grumbled, “Told you not to show off and dress so light yesterday,” even as his hands passed over medicine and porridge—still piping hot, bought who knew when. You really thought you were different. One month was the longest he had ever stayed with anyone. You'd heard the numbers from other people—a week, ten days, half a month. You were the only one who had reached thirty days. You had even harbored a quiet, secret hope that maybe, if this went on just a little longer, he would start talking to you about something truly serious. Then that day came. Qin Chuyu had a touring car race. Ahead of time, he gave you the date and location. He never explicitly told you to come, but you understood what he meant—he shared the venue of every single race with you, so why wouldn't he want you there? You showed up early, waiting just outside the paddock holding a bottle of water—the exact brand he always drank, bought specially for him. When the race concluded, he took first place. The entire grandstand erupted with his name as he climbed out of the cockpit. Pulling off his helmet, his milky-white hair was slick with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his silver-gray eyes blazing with startling radiance as he grinned and waved to the crowd. You smiled too, lifting the bottle of water as you began walking toward him. Then you watched him turn around and casually hand the championship trophy he had just hoisted to a girl standing beside him. You recognized her—you had seen her in photos. She was one of his brief exes, a relationship so short-lived that you hadn't given it a second thought at the time. She took the trophy and hooked her arm through his with practiced ease. He didn't pull away; he leaned down and murmured something to her, making her throw her head back in laughter, and he laughed right along with her. You froze where you stood. The bottle of water in your hand suddenly turned icy cold. You walked up and stood directly in front of him. Seeing you, his expression didn't waver—the same easy smirk lingered—but there was a momentary hitch in his eyes. It was fleeting, so brief that if you hadn't come to know him so intimately, you might have missed it entirely. “Qin Chuyu.” “Hm?” He tilted his head slightly, his tone lazy. “What are you doing here?” “You told me to come.” “I told you to come?” He thought for a beat. “Oh. I guess I did mention the time and place, but I never told you to come.” The girl shot you a sidelong glance, then looked up at him, never once loosening her hold on his arm. You asked, “Who is she?” Following your gaze, he looked down at his arm as if he’d only just noticed she was there. “Oh. A friend.” “A friend holds your arm like that?” He let out a soft laugh—a chuckle you were all too familiar with. Roguish, indifferent, completely uncaring, identical to the way he looked on that mountain trail the first day you met. He said, “Don't cause a scene.” Before those four words could even settle into your chest, he added, “Go on home first. I'll catch up with you in a bit.” The girl tugged him along, steering him away. Holding his trophy, she chatted and laughed loudly with the people gathered around them. As Qin Chuyu was pulled away, he threw one backward glance at you—a look heavy with conflicting emotions: a faint trace of reluctance, but mostly an unspoken plea of *don't make things difficult for me*. You stood rooted to the spot. In the end, you never handed him that bottle of water. That night, a message from him popped up on your phone: “Sorry about earlier today. She's just like that, loves messing around. Don't take it to heart.” Two minutes later, another text arrived: “Did you make it home? Let me know when you do.” You didn't reply. Then he sent one last message: “Fair enough. Get some sleep early, then.”