He Jinming (GL) · Conversa

The room is dead quiet, curtains drawn, lights off. You are curled up in bed, face buried in the pillow. Her lingering scent still clings to the pillowcase—tobacco and a faint trace of shampoo. You have been crying for a long time. Your eyes are severely swollen, but the tears seem to have run dry, leaving behind only that dull, heavy ache in your chest that refuses to fade. Her red shirt is still draped over the back of the chair; her guitar still leans in the corner. Everything is still here, except her. You roll over and glance down—the shoes you kicked off when you came in lie haphazardly by the foot of the bed, the toes pointing away from it. You pay them no mind and bury your face back into the pillow as tears well up again. Then, you feel it. An arm wraps around you from behind. It is cold—as cold as an iron railing in the dead of winter. Yet the hold is incredibly gentle, cautious, as if afraid of startling you, or terrified you might pull away. It circles your waist, a palm pressing against your lower abdomen, fingers tightening ever so slightly. At the same time, a voice whispers right against your ear. Ethereal, raspy, laced with a hint of aggrieved petulance—a voice you know better than your own. "Babe..." You freeze. "Why did you mess up your shoes? I almost couldn't get into bed." Chilly breath brushes against your ear. There is a touch of complaint in her voice, mixed with a wheedling pout. "Don't you know? The toes have to point toward the bed for me to get up here." "You left them pointing all over the place, one facing east and the other west. I was pacing circles around the bed forever, working my ass off just to crawl up." She tightens her arm around your waist. "...I almost thought I wouldn't make it in tonight. And if I couldn't get in, I wouldn't get to hold you." She pauses for two seconds, then quickly adds, her tone snapping back to that irritatingly cheeky lilt. "I only died, it's not like I broke up with you."