Coming Home
Introduction
The Moment the Traffic Lights Change
The 6 PM Subway
The carriage is packed with the after-work crowd. You hold onto the strap, your gaze drifting aimlessly across the tunnel walls rushing past the window.
Out of the corner of your eye, a figure leans against the opposite door. Short hair, side-swept bangs, her profile traced in a soft curve by the warm yellow light. She keeps her head down, looking at her phone, occasionally glancing up at the station names with a weary expression.
You don't recognize her immediately, but there's an indescribable familiarity in her movements, the way she stands. It isn't until the train rounds a bend and she sways, instinctively gripping the strap tighter—that hand, nails neatly trimmed, with a small mole on her ring finger.
Your heart skips a beat.
It's her.
Five years.
You stare at her, your throat tightening. Sensing your gaze, she turns her head, and your eyes meet briefly. She gives a polite, faint smile and looks away—she didn't recognize you.
The train arrives at the station. She puts away her phone and heads for the door. As if possessed, you follow, noticing an ID card slip from her coat pocket onto the seat.
"Excuse me, wait—"
You bend down to pick it up and chase her out of the carriage. Hearing footsteps, she turns around, and you hand over the card.
"You dropped this."
She pauses, takes the card, glances at it, and then looks up to really look at you.
In that instant, her eyes slowly widen.
"... Ah, you're..."
You take a deep breath and call out the name that has been on the tip of your tongue for five years.
"Gui Xi."
She freezes. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth turn up, and her eyes curve into crescents.
"What a coincidence," she says softly. "Long time no see."
The Five-Year Gap
The Weekend Corner Cafe
Sunlight streams through the window, casting patches of light onto the wooden table. You sit opposite her, watching her gently stir the foam of her latte with a small spoon.
"You're still the same," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Though... you seem more mature now."
You smile and ask her how she has been these past few years. She looks down, thinks for a moment, and shares some trivial details about her work—how she transferred to the administration department, adopted a cat named "Mianhua", and occasionally visits her hometown.
Each sentence is short, as if she is reciting a pre-written script.
But as she speaks, her fingers keep lightly tapping the side of her cup—a nervous habit of hers when she's anxious or hesitant. You still remember it.
"What about you?" she asks back, her gaze lingering on your face. "Do you... have a girlfriend?"
You shake your head. She doesn't press further, lowering her head to sip her coffee.
Suddenly, her phone screen lights up on the table. The caller ID reads: Luoqiu.
She glances at it, her finger hovering over the screen for a moment, before she ultimately silences it and flips the phone over.
"Aren't you going to answer?"
"It's fine, I'll call back later." She smiles, a bit hurriedly. "Where were we?"
Outside, a bird flutters past, and the sunlight shifts slightly. Though only a table separates you, it feels as if you are divided by five years of unspoken thoughts.
The Corridor of That Summer
An Afternoon Flashing Back from Memory
As she speaks, you occasionally drift off. Because the way she smiles is exactly the same as in high school.
It was the summer five years ago. A corridor in June, the cicadas buzzing deafeningly. She was leaning on the railing, holding an orange popsicle in her hand, looking like a little sun.
"Hey, did you know? Popsicles are only satisfying if you take a big bite." She turned to look at you, a bit of juice on the corner of her mouth.
"Aren't they meant to be licked?"
"That's too polite. It doesn't suit you."
That day, she wore a white, short-sleeved school uniform, sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, revealing her sun-kissed arms. Later, the teacher made both of you stand in the hallway as punishment for talking during lunch break. Standing in the corner, she still secretly smiled at you.
"If only time could stop back then," she suddenly says, her voice very soft.
You look up and realize it is the present her speaking, not a memory. She looks out the window, her gaze somewhat distant.
"But people always have to move forward." She smiles, turning her face to look at you. "Right?"
You don't answer. Outside, a light rain has started to fall, droplets hitting the glass and blurring the street view. She lowers her head, fingers interlaced in her lap.
It suddenly occurs to you that this posture is exactly the same as when she was punished to stand in the hallway all those years ago.
Time hasn't made you strangers; it has only made certain things harder to say.
Five years apart, a simple "Hi" in the subway brings you back into Gui Xi's world. She is an administration team leader, with a caring boyfriend, Gan Luoqiu, by her side. Yet, from her dodging glances and fragmented memories, you catch glimpses of the ripples you left in her heart. She still steps in puddles looking for rainbows and remembers the umbrella you shared on rainy days. What you need to do is read her true choice between your past chemistry and her current partner's tenderness. This is a story about growth, regret, and starting anew. Every cup of coffee, every casual chat, and every promise after the rain could rewrite the destiny of all three.
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