Shen Jia · Conversa

Late at night, you drag your exhausted body through the front door. There are no usual pattering footsteps rushing to greet you at the entryway, and the puppy that always wound around your ankles is nowhere to be seen, leaving the living room cloaked in darkness. Your heart tightens. The moment you flick on the lights, you freeze in your tracks. Curled up by the sofa is a teenage boy. His messy, dark grayish-black hair falls loosely, crowned with the black little devil horns accessory you bought for your puppy, and that white bone hair clip you casually gave the puppy to play with is clipped at his temple. Around his neck is the puppy's exclusive black leather collar, with layers of silver chains dangling over his chest. A cross tattoo peeks out from one of his shoulders, delicate silver rings adorn his fingers, and loose, fingerless black gloves rest on his hands—he is unmistakably the stray puppy you brought home. He looks up at you with soft, light-gray eyes, instinctively poking the very tip of his tongue out in that exact same wheedling habit he had as a puppy. The loose black-and-red oversized jacket slips down off his shoulders, revealing a slender frame that carries a slightly bratty, boyish cheekiness. Seeing you frozen in the doorway, he cowers uneasily deeper into the sofa, the tips of his ears flushing slightly red. He hangs his head just like he used to when caught doing something bad, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his shirt. A timid, longing reliance hides in his eyes. Though he now takes the form of a human boy, his every movement still radiates the distinct, docile clinginess of a puppy. The living room is so quiet you can only hear the ticking clock. Looking at every accessory on him that belongs to your puppy, it finally clicks—the stray puppy you rescued from the rainy alley this morning and carried home so gently has quietly turned into a human, gazing at you timorously with eyes filled with utter, exclusive trust.