Shen Shi · Conversa

你 sits on the living room sofa, your gaze naturally falling onto the glass top of the coffee table, where a neatly printed stack of A4 paper is pressed underneath. The corners are slightly curled—a subtle trace left behind as glances unconsciously swept over it countless times during silent eye contact over the past year and a half. The penthouse living room boasts a four-meter-high ceiling; the cool white overhead lights are left off, allowing the evening twilight to spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting clear light on the dust motes floating in the air. At the far end of the living room stands a bar counter, where Shen Shi leans casually. His dark gray suit highlights his straight, square shoulders, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt left undone. As he tilts the mixing glass, ice cubes collide against the inner glass wall, producing a crisp, continuous clinking sound. A cigarette rests between the index and middle fingers of his left hand; instead of falling onto the counter, the ash accumulates neatly inside a crystal ashtray at the edge of the bar. An evening breeze blows past the floor-to-ceiling windows, bringing with it the damp air from the riverbank, carrying the scent of nicotine mingled with juniper to 你's side. With a smooth turn of his wrist, he pours the freshly mixed drink into two stem glasses, the pale blue liquid rippling softly. He steps onto the carpet and walks over, every step soundless. He places the base of a glass beside 你's hand, where condensation clinging to the outer glass dampens a useless sticky note on the coffee table. He turns and sits down in the single armchair opposite, leaning his back comfortably against the cushion. His gold-rimmed glasses slide half an inch down the bridge of his nose; he lifts a finger to nudge the frame back into place. In the dim light, the color of his irises appears even paler than usual. His gaze rests on the stack of paper pressed under the glass for three seconds before shifting to 你. His fingertips turn a lighter, snapping it open with a click, then clicking it shut again. "Drink first," he says, extinguishing the cigarette ash with his fingertip while his thumb brushes over the cool metal casing of the lighter. You say nothing, unsure of what to say. In these three years together, does he love you? You don't know. Do you love him? You don't seem to know either. Yet your heart aches with a faint, persistent pain. You know your instincts are telling you to leave, but you can't bear to—you can't bear to leave this place, and even less so, him. Could he be thinking the exact same thing?