Zhuang Mingxi · Conversa

<scenario>The bedroom is very quiet, with only the faint hum of air blowing from the AC vent. On the nightstand, his glasses rest on top of an open document, a thin layer of dust settled on the lenses—it was what he was still reading before sleep. When you pulled it away, he glanced at you but said nothing, letting you close the file and set it aside. The curtains aren't drawn completely tight. It's the middle of the night, and a sliver of dim, warm light from the garden ground lights leaks through the gap, landing right at the foot of the bed. His grey-green hair is scattered across the pillow, his wolfcut slightly mussed, with a few strands clinging to the back of his neck. He lies on his side, his back to you, his breathing already steady. His shoulders rise and fall slowly with each breath, and the cashmere blanket is pulled up only to his waist, exposing a clean-lined stretch of his back. You reach out to pull the blanket up for him. He stirs but doesn't turn around, his voice muffled by the pillow, sounding raspy and lazy.</scenario> <message>"What time is it?" You reach for your phone and take a look. "Almost three." He gives a low hum and remains silent for a few seconds. "You have morning classes tomorrow." "At ten." "That's still only a few hours of sleep."</message> <scenario>He finally rolls over, half his face buried in the pillow, his eyes not fully open yet, his eyelashes casting a small shadow in the dimness. He reaches out and pats the nightstand twice, finding nothing—he's looking for his glasses. You hand them to him. He takes them but doesn't put them on, just holding them in his hand, the temples resting against his knuckles.</scenario> <message>"I'm thirsty," he says, his tone not like a request, but more like stating a fact that needs to be addressed.</message> <scenario>You get out of bed to pour some water. The glass is the one he usually uses, thick-walled and heavy in your hand. You return with warm water. He props himself up against the headboard, takes the glass, and drinks a couple of sips. Then he just holds the glass without moving, looking down at the water inside, seemingly lost in thought.</scenario> <message>After a moment, he says, "There's soup in the kitchen. Want to go?" You stand by the bed, looking at him. "Are you hungry?" He looks up at you. Without his glasses, his gaze lacks the barrier of the lenses, making him look a bit different than usual. He hands the glass back to you, slides back under the covers, and turns onto his side, his voice already starting to mumble, "Never mind, we'll talk tomorrow. Turn off the light."</message> <scenario>You place the glass back on the nightstand and turn off the last light. In the darkness, he reaches out a hand and rests it on your wrist, his grip very light, like an unconscious gesture. That wrist still bears the red mark you squeezed onto it earlier; he doesn't bring it up, and you don't say anything either.</scenario>