Luo Shian · Conversa

Dusk fell like a water-soaked swath of gray-blue silk, slowly cascading from the eaves of the teaching building. Luo Shian locked the last batch of recruitment materials into the drawer of the student council office; the clink of metal sounded especially crisp in the empty corridor. He straightened up, raised his wrist, and glanced at his watch—6:17 PM. Twelve full hours had passed since he got up at six in the morning. He rubbed the back of his neck, where a small patch of muscle had gone stiff and sore from hunching over his desk for so long. The mirror reflected his face: shirt collar immaculate, tie knot sitting neatly two fingers below his Adam's apple, hair still holding the shape it had when he left the house that morning—even the two loose strands at his forehead hung obediently in place. Perfect. He gave himself a score in his head, then picked up the cashmere coat draped over the back of his chair. The rubber track on the sports field was dyed a hazy orange-red by the setting sun, and the air carried the particular chill of an early autumn evening. Luo Shian draped his coat over his arm and walked at an unhurried pace, his leather shoes tapping out a steady rhythm on the track. As he walked, he mentally checked the list of what remained undone today: the minutes of the academic department's regular meeting needed to be organized, the guest list for next week's finance forum needed to be confirmed, and... He stopped, pulled his phone out of his pocket. When the screen lit up, he squinted involuntarily—the light stung his eyes. He unlocked it, opened the chat with Luo Yusheng, and his fingertip paused on the screen for half a second. "I have tutoring tonight. Handle dinner yourself." Sent. He stared at the green bubble for two seconds, then added another line: "Don't keep eating instant noodles. I topped up a card at the Cantonese restaurant downstairs." He tucked the phone back into his pocket and kept walking. As he passed the basketball court, a few freshmen were playing, and the thumping of the ball against the ground made his temples throb. He turned his head slightly, his gaze landing on a corner of the distant bleachers—a couple sat there, the girl leaning her head on the boy's shoulder, the two of them sharing a pair of earbuds. Luo Shian quickly looked away. Seeing scenes like that too often gave him unnecessary illusions, and illusions were the last thing he needed. He circled around to the other side of the field, under a plane tree, and sat down on a bench. The trunk bore words carved by students from previous years, mottled and illegible, like some ancient incantation. He fished a bottle of water out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. The water was room temperature, with the astringent taste peculiar to plastic bottle caps. What he really wanted was a hot latte, but caffeine would make it even harder for him to fall asleep tonight, and tonight... he probably wouldn't sleep well anyway. He leaned back against the bench and looked up at the sky. The dusk had thickened until it could no longer dissolve, and a few early stars were seeping out of the gray-blue canopy. In the distance, the broadcast announcing dinner at the cafeteria rang out, mixed with the noise of students laughing and messing around, like a warm membrane sealing him off from the outside. Luo Shian suddenly felt tired. Not the tiredness of the body—it was the kind of exhaustion that seeped out from between his bones, pervasive and inescapable. He remembered that afternoon at the recruitment booth, when a younger schoolmate had blushed and asked if he wanted bubble tea. He had smiled and declined, saying, "I'm watching my sugar intake lately." That smile had taken him a long time to practice—the curve of the corners of his mouth, the gentleness in his eyes, even the speed of his blinking were all precisely calculated. After the schoolmate walked away disappointed, he immediately withdrew the expression, as simply as switching off a light. He could no longer remember the last time he had smiled from the bottom of his heart. His phone buzzed. He thought it was a reply from Luo Yusheng, but when he took it out, it turned out to be a campus push notification—"Public List for the Finance Department's National Scholarship." His name was at the top. He stared at those two characters for a few seconds, didn't tap on it, and swiped it away. This should have been something to be happy about. When he had won this scholarship a year ago, he had genuinely been happy—that feeling of relief that "I've finally made it through another step." But now he only felt numb. He had calculated the scholarship amount long ago: just enough to cover Luo Yusheng's art supplies for next month, with the remainder patching part of the rent shortfall. Numbers were always just numbers. In the distance, the lights of the teaching buildings came on one after another, stretching his shadow long, then shortening it, then stretching it again. He checked the time—7:03 PM. What was coming would come anyway. He unlocked his phone and opened the pinned chat. His thumb hovered over the screen as he looked at the other person's avatar, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force. He took a deep breath, and the breath went into his lungs like swallowing a handful of broken glass. Then he began to type. "Do you need me to come over today?" As the message sent through WeChat, he waited quietly.