Xie Xun · Conversa

The day Xie Wan came back, the house was as lively as New Year's. Mom and Dad bustled around, laid out a whole table of food, and redid the bedroom that used to be yours—new sheets and quilt covers, and the scented candle Xie Wan likes set out. You stood at the corner of the hallway, watching them carry things into that room in a flurry, still clutching a few old clothes you hadn't had time to pack away. Xie Wan stood in the middle of the living room, smiling a little awkwardly, repeating "No need to go to all this trouble" and "I'll be fine anywhere." Mom held her hand, eyes red, saying you've been wronged all these years, and from now on this is your home. You looked down at the clothes in your hands, turned around, and went back to the small guest room at the end of the hallway. At dinner, you sat at the very edge of the table, a plate of cold dishes in front of you. Xie Wan sat in your old seat, with Mom and Dad on either side piling food onto her plate, asking if she'd been doing well out there, how her adoptive parents had treated her, whether she'd been through any hardship. Xie Wan spoke in a soft, quiet voice, and when she talked about her childhood her eyes went red. Mom wiped her tears along with her, and Dad silently ladled her some soup. You kept your head down and ate your rice, saying nothing. When your chopsticks reached for the sweet and sour ribs, they collided with another pair. You looked up—it was Xie Xun. He was sitting next to Xie Wan, just back from outside, black jacket still on, carrying the chill of the night with him. He glanced down at you, then at the rib on his chopsticks. Without a word, he loosened his grip and let you have it. You froze for a second, then said quietly: "Thanks, bro." He didn't answer. He picked up a slice of ginger, chewed it, then leaned back in his chair and played with his phone. That was half a month ago. In the days that followed, Xie Xun came home less and less. And when he did, he no longer pushed your door open to check on you no matter how late it was, like he used to. You started hearing him talk to Xie Wan—"Mm," "Okay," "Don't worry about me"—still in that same lazy tone, but you'd never once heard him tell Xie Wan to "get lost" or "stop bothering me." One night you passed through the living room and saw Xie Wan curled up in a blanket on the sofa, watching TV. Xie Xun came out of the study to get water. He paused by the sofa, set the cup of hot water down on the coffee table in front of her, then turned and walked away without a word. You stood in the shadow of the hallway, watching that steaming glass of plain water, and suddenly your throat felt tight. He used to only leave water by your bedside. After that day, you started having insomnia. In the early hours, you lay in bed scrolling through your phone, flipping through old chat records with Xie Xun. There wasn't anything special in them—you'd send "Bro, I'm back," and he'd reply with an "Mm" a long time later; you'd send "What are we eating tonight?" and he'd reply "Whatever." Just pointless little exchanges, but you read them over and over until your eyes ached. The time on your phone screen jumped to 2:23 a.m. You pressed the phone face-down into your pillow, turned over, and stared at the pitch-black ceiling. Your eyes felt hot, and you blinked hard, forcing the wetness back. Then you heard the soft sound of the doorknob turning. A corner of your blanket was lifted from behind, letting in a gust of cold air, and your back went stiff. Before you could react, a warm body pressed against you, an arm reaching around from behind and loosely circling your waist. A familiar scent—night wind and the faint smell of laundry detergent. Your heart skipped a beat. You froze completely, not even daring to breathe too loudly. The person behind you stayed quiet, chin resting lightly against the back of your head, breathing soft and slow, like he'd just come in from outside, still carrying a weariness he hadn't had a chance to shake off. You waited a long time before he spoke. His voice was hoarse, forced out from between his throat, carrying that familiar, careless tiredness: "...Still awake." He paused, and the arm around your waist tightened a little. He buried his chin into the hair at the nape of your neck, like someone so exhausted they'd finally found a place to lean. "Xie Wan said she wants the wontons from that place south of the city." His voice was muffled, like he was talking to himself. "I made the trip." Your eyes suddenly stung. The wontons south of the city—that was the shop you'd once casually said was "delicious." Back then, you'd just moved into the Xie house and didn't know him well yet. One night you were too hungry to sleep, so you went down to the convenience store, bought a pack of frozen wontons, cooked them, took a photo, and posted it on your Moments. The next day, Xie Xun came back carrying a bowl of wontons from that place south of the city, set it on your desk, and left without a word. Back then you thought this brother of yours was strange—cold as ice, yet somehow not that cold at all. The breathing behind you gradually became even and long, like he'd already fallen asleep. But the arm around your waist never loosened, his palm warm through the thin fabric of your pajamas. You stared into the darkness in front of you as tears slid silently down your face, landing on the pillow and soaking into a small dark patch. The first thing he did when he came back was crawl into your bed. "I remembered you like them too, so I brought some back for you. Hungry?" As he spoke, his hand moved to your stomach and felt it. You'd been eating very little lately—today, you hadn't eaten at all.