雾散星见

An Mixiu woke to sunlight pooling at the foot of the bed, but the room still held a thin trace of night, like fog that had not quite scattered.

He rolled over, checked his phone—11:30. The space beside him was empty, the blanket kicked aside. Lei Shi had gotten up at some point.

An Mixiu sat up, hair messy, and shuffled out in slippers.

The living room was quiet. A cup of cold coffee sat on the table beside a half-open magazine. From the kitchen came the hum of the range hood and the soft sizzle of oil.

An Mixiu leaned against the doorframe and watched.

Lei Shi wore the dark-blue apron with the ugly cat printed on it—the one he had complained about for three days and still wore every time he cooked. His sleeves were rolled up, the old scar on his wrist catching the light.

“Awake?” Lei Shi didn’t turn.

“Mm.” An Mixiu went over and peered into the pan. “What are you making?”

“Egg fried rice. Don’t stand so close.”

“Stingy.”

Lei Shi plated two bowls and set them on the table, along with a plate of unevenly sliced cucumber. An Mixiu tasted it.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad means good.”

“You say that every time.”

“Because it is.”

An Mixiu smiled and began to eat. Halfway through, the orange cat crawled out from under the sofa, hopped onto a chair, and stared at his bowl.

“Don’t feed it.”

“It’s looking at me.”

“It looks at everyone like that.”

An Mixiu dropped a small piece of ham into the cat bowl anyway. The cat sniffed it and walked away with offended dignity.

“See,” Lei Shi said.

“Your cat food tastes bad.”

“Who told me to ‘just grab whatever’ last time?”

An Mixiu buried his face in his rice.

After the meal, Lei Shi washed the dishes. An Mixiu curled up on the sofa, turned on the TV, and dozed off before he realized it.

When Lei Shi came out, he found him asleep, remote still in hand, the volume turned low. He took the remote, switched off the TV, and draped a blanket over him.

An Mixiu suddenly caught his wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“Buying something.”

“What?”

“Cat food. And ice cream.”

An Mixiu’s mouth tilted. “Mango?”

“Obviously.”

Lei Shi left. The convenience store was close; the afternoon air outside smelled faintly of wet leaves, as if the city had just let go of a long, thin fog. When he returned, An Mixiu was still asleep.

Lei Shi poured the cat food. The orange cat immediately buried its face in the bowl. Lei Shi sat on the other end of the sofa, opened the mango ice cream, and took a bite.

An Mixiu opened one eye.

“You’re eating without me.”

“I bought it.”

“I want some.”

Lei Shi handed it over. An Mixiu took a spoonful, sweet and cold, summer melting on his tongue.

“Were you pretending to sleep?”

“No.”

“Then when did you wake?”

“When the door closed.”

Lei Shi hmphed. An Mixiu finished the ice cream, handed back the box, and leaned his head against Lei Shi’s shoulder.

Lei Shi stiffened but did not push him away.

“Heavy.”

“You’re hard.”

“Then don’t lean.”

An Mixiu did not move. Lei Shi did not move either.

Outside, the sky had cleared. The fog that had hung over the city all morning was gone, leaving the afternoon bright and washed clean. An Mixiu watched the window for a while, then said softly, “Last night the sky was full of stars.”

Lei Shi glanced at him. “You saw them?”

“Mm. Through the curtain. They looked like they were sinking into fog, but they didn’t disappear.”

Lei Shi was quiet for a moment. “Good.”

An Mixiu turned his face slightly, studying Lei Shi’s profile. “You always say ‘good’ when you don’t know what else to say.”

“I said good because it is.”

An Mixiu smiled, but the smile was thin, like starlight caught behind cloud.

“Lei Shi.”

“Mm.”

“Are you home tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“The day after?”

“Yep.”

“And the day after that?”

Lei Shi looked down at him. An Mixiu’s eyes were closed again, lashes casting small shadows, breathing light. He sounded almost asleep, but the question hung there, careful and fragile, as if he feared the answer might scatter like fog.

Lei Shi reached out and ruffled his hair.

“I’ll be here.”

An Mixiu did not answer. He only leaned closer, as though letting go of something he had carried for too long.

The orange cat curled at their feet, purring. Sunlight filled the room, warm and ordinary.

Yet somewhere beneath that warmth, the old ache remained. They did not speak of it. They did not promise forever. They only had this afternoon, this half-eaten ice cream, this cat, this sofa, and the quiet certainty that when night came again, the fog might return—but so would the stars.