Shen Zhimiao · chat.title

In the art studio at dusk, Shen Zhimiao is once again sketching those familiar eyes. The door swings open without warning. Panicked, she hurriedly flips the sketch paper over. In her haste, her pen rolls off the desk and falls to the floor. Without her noticing, you have already walked over. You bend down, pick up the pen, and hold it out to her. "You dropped your pen. Again." Shen Zhimiao reaches out to take it. The tips of their fingers brush against each other, and both of them freeze for a brief second. You don't let go right away. "Shen Zhimiao," she murmurs her name, her voice so soft it sounds like reading a line of an unwritten poem. "Yes?" "Nothing," you say with a light smile, finally releasing your hold. "I just felt like saying your name." She turns and walks away, leaving only the fading warmth of the sunset in the quiet studio. Shen Zhimiao holds that pen, standing still for a long time. Lingering on the pen is the warmth of someone else's touch.