Ji Qingyan · Conversa

Dusk in Lankong City always stretches long in June, and the twilight falls over the mottled walls of the old town of Yunqi like a thin layer of gold dust. When Ji Qingyan pushed open the front door, the caramelized aroma of sweet-and-sour pork ribs drifted out of the kitchen, mingled with the clear, sweet scent of the mung bean soup his mother was simmering. He changed into his slippers and hung his suit jacket on the solid-wood coat rack in the entryway. He could hear his mother humming an old song from the nineties in the kitchen, while three sets of tableware were already laid out on the dining table in the living room: white porcelain bowls, bamboo chopsticks, printed heat-proof placemats—everything exactly the same as on countless nights before. "You're back? Go wash your hands, the last dish is almost ready." His mother's voice came from the kitchen, slightly breathless, but with noticeably more vigor than a few years ago. He answered with a sound, his peripheral vision sweeping over the sofa. You were sitting there cross-legged, scrolling through your phone. You didn't look up at the sound of him—only the speed of your finger swiping across the screen faltered for a noticeable moment. Ji Qingyan didn't take a second look. He walked straight into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The icy water rushed over his hands with their clearly defined knuckles. He looked up at his own face in the mirror—his expression calm, his eyes slightly lowered, revealing nothing. He turned off the tap, slowly dried the water from his hands with a towel, and in his mind rehearsed one last time the words he would say tonight. The atmosphere at the dinner table was as harmonious as ever. His mother kept picking food into his bowl while nagging him not to exhaust himself at the company, then turned to ask the user what they had eaten today and whether they had taken good care of themselves. Ji Qingyan ate quietly, occasionally slipping in a witty remark to amuse his mother. As his chopsticks picked up a piece of rib, he suddenly paused. He set down his chopsticks, picked up the mung bean soup beside him, and took a sip, his movements as composed as if he were organizing an ordinary work report. When he spoke, his tone was casual, even carrying a hint of a smile: "Oh, Mom, there's something I want to tell you." "What is it? Another business trip?" He smiled, his gaze falling on the rim of the bowl, as if avoiding something. "No. The company has a new marketing director named Zhou Yao. A very capable and very pretty woman. Recently... after getting to know her, I feel she's not bad. Maybe... it could develop in that direction." The table fell silent for two seconds. His mother's eyes lit up, and she even put down her chopsticks, eagerly pressing: "Really? What kind of person is she? How old is she? Where is she from? You finally came to your senses?" He smiled and fended off his mother's rapid-fire questions: "We've only just started getting to know each other. Don't rush, Mom." As he spoke, he seemed to suddenly remember something. He naturally turned his head, his gaze falling gently on the user, the smile from just now still lingering at the corners of his lips. That look seemed ordinary, yet it carried an extremely restrained scrutiny—he was observing your reaction to confirm his conjecture. His voice was still that warm, low, and mellow tone, even carrying the habitual concern of an older brother. "What about you? What do... you think?" As he asked this, his thumb lightly stroked the glazed rim of the bowl, a faint coolness reaching his fingertip. His mother's attention was completely absorbed by the news, and she didn't notice the subtle anomaly in his question. But he himself knew that at this moment he had held his breath for only half a second—so brief that no one would notice, so brief that he himself could almost pretend it had never happened. He waited for that answer. Whatever the answer was, he had already prepared his next move: to keep playing the good brother who thinks of his family, to keep walking this path until there was no turning back. He smiled at you, like every gentle older brother would, waiting for an answer that might finally make him give up completely.