Circles and Boundaries
[Resort, within the park, daytime]
The early summer sun spread across the ground, the sand fine and dry, the coconut leaves casting dappled shadows. In the distance, the electric drills working at varying speeds seemed to keep time with the air. A salty breeze swept in from the sea, brushing against the glass, rounding corners, and then blowing back from the end of the corridor.
These past few days, the area he scheduled to inspect happened to overlap with the area she was responsible for. On the surface, it seemed like a coincidence, but in reality, it was as if someone had deliberately drawn the two lines closer and closer together. She checked materials in the tent area, hooked the measuring tape on her wrist, raised her hand to half-updo her hair, and tucked a pencil into her hair, revealing her slender nape. A dust cloth was laid out on the clean ground, and she simply sat down on it, spreading out color swatches and sample pieces on her lap, touching each one as if petting a sleeping cat.
He surveyed the path opposite, his steps steady, his posture upright, his cuffs neatly tucked in, and the tips of his shoes not crossing the warning red line. His gaze lingered for a second on her fingertips before returning to his own, like a wolf halting at the edge of the woods, outwardly still, but with all its nerves on edge.
She looked up, and said casually, "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"
He stopped half a step away: "Official business."
She pointed to the corner of the swatch with the tip of her pen: "I'm asking about your stomach."
He whispered, "The medicine is on me."
She hummed in agreement, her pen falling back onto the paper as if swallowing her words. She knew his tone—cold, concise, and to the point, never giving any extraneous emotions a chance to cross the line; yet she preferred to linger just outside that boundary, like a fox's tail brushing against a rock, leaving only a barely perceptible trace.
Once, he went to the glass corridor to check the lighting positions and saw her through the reflection, holding a pen cap in her mouth and gesturing with proportions. She also saw his reflection and tilted her head slightly: "You're standing too straight, like you're about to have a meeting."
He straightened his cuffs: "It's a habit."
She laughed: "It's okay to be unaccustomed to something just once in a while."
He didn't answer, only took a half-step to the side. The reflection in the glass brought them closer until they could hear each other's breathing. She smelled a faint scent of ink, while he smelled of sun-dried fabric and a barely perceptible hint of smoke. She didn't back down, and he didn't move forward; their shadows seemed to confront each other for a moment on the glass, then gently parted as the light shifted.
A gust of wind in the afternoon lifted the canvas of the tent, and the aluminum poles slid down with a clang. She had just stood up when he stepped forward, snapped it back into place, and blocked the new intern who was trying to peek in with his other hand, coldly saying, "Don't go in here yet."
She watched from two steps away, then got up and walked past him, whispering, "Thanks."
His gaze remained fixed on the scene, and his tone was flat: "Don't sit in the wind next time."
She moved half an inch closer, like a fox draping its tail over her: "Then why are you standing in the wind right in front of me?"
His Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't take it. He simply straightened the guide rope, allowing the flow of people to go around it. She turned sideways and walked out along the rope, her steps light. When she turned back, a smile curved at the corner of her eye.
They bumped into each other at the door in the evening, and both slowed down at the same time. She stepped aside, moving the drawing tube behind her: "You go first."
He pulled his hand half an inch off the doorknob: "Go to the right."
She leaned close to his ear and said softly, "President, if you follow the rules so strictly, it's easy for people to misunderstand and think you're avoiding me."
He lowered his eyes: "I've already been misunderstood."
She smiled and said, "Then let's not give them any acting to do."
He didn't approach, and she didn't turn around. In public view, they were like separated by a silent pane of glass: she was unrestrained and at ease, while he was upright and restrained; clear, yet distant.
At night, she would text him from time to time, initially about work: construction progress, changes in drawings, and delays in material supply; soon, the topic veered out of work, and her tone became as salty and bright as the sea breeze.
Today I saw a piece of old cypress wood at the material store; the grain resembled an old landscape painting. You said you didn't like anything fancy, but wouldn't you say this is a memory of nature?
I stepped on a fallen leaf by the pool this evening; it looked like a fox's tail, reminding me of the one on your sleeve. You still have it, don't you?
She didn't ask for a response, but messages, like pebbles, would fall into his chat box every few hours, silently disrupting his rhythm throughout the day. Several times he opened the chat box, the cursor lit up and then went out, and then a message popped up in the boardroom chat. He deleted all the words he had temporarily written and put his phone face down on the desktop. Reason tried to calm his heart, but he couldn't suppress that slight tremor.
[Resort. Private Meeting Area. Night]
The lights flickered, and the sound of dampness could be heard outside the French windows. She walked towards them through the glass, her heels clicking softly. They looked at each other through the window, their breaths brushing against the glass before receding. He raised his hand halfway, when a red dot in the corner of the ceiling flashed. He withdrew his hand, his fingertips tapping only on the rim of his glass.
She drew a tiny circle on the fog, touched it with her fingertip, like a lightly left tooth mark. Without waiting for him to understand, she turned and left.
His phone vibrated slightly. There were no message notifications, only his reflection slowly fading in the glass. He stood there for a long time, a spot on his palm burning, as if that circle had landed on his skin.
[Resort, Seaside View Building, Afternoon]
The building faces the vast sea, its curved floor-to-ceiling windows framing the entire coastline; the interior features warm wooden floors, and a slender bar overlooking the sea runs along the outer perimeter. A sea breeze momentarily pressed against the glass, causing the curtain wall to emit a subtle hum. He subtly tucked the toes of his shoes in half an inch, his gaze sweeping over the emergency exits and fire extinguishers before returning to her.
The project manager asked, "Do we need to make any adjustments? Should we add more columns?"
She shook her head: "Don't block the sea view, leave the view clear."
"Then how do we guide it?"
"Brighten up the corner, and people will slow down on their own."
He whispered, "Afraid of getting dizzy?"
She tilted her head and smiled, "I'm afraid of being noisy."
He looked away: "Do as she says."
She turned the drawings to him: "I'll make some gentle adjustments. During the day, I'll add a matte finish, and at night I'll switch using the scene chart, turning off the cool light by one level and pushing the warm light forward by two levels."
He nodded: "Don't make people feel dizzy, slow them down."
She glanced at him: "You can slow down a bit too."
He lowered his eyes: "I'm slow."
She raised an eyebrow: "I saw it."
A beam of light in the shadows around the corner was slightly off-center, stretching two shadows on the wall, which briefly overlapped. She didn't adjust it immediately, letting that moment pause for a second; only after her colleague passed by did she raise her hand and turn the light back two degrees, the shadows slowly separating and returning to their respective sides.
He watched that moment, his fingertips pressing on his cuff, as if trying to put something away, but not quite managing to.
She handed the pen to his dominant hand: "Hold the edge for me."
He caught it, only touching the pen barrel, and asked in a very indifferent tone: "Will you cut your lip?"
She smiled and said, "Don't worry, I won't cut anyone."
He replied casually, "I'm afraid you'll cut yourself."
She turned her gaze back to the sea: "Then you keep an eye on it."
[Port City, Small Bar, Night]
A few days later, he arranged to meet his childhood friend, Chen Chen. The private room was understated; the tiny scratches on the wooden table resembled dense waves, and the lighting was very dim. Chen Chen stared at him for two seconds: "You've lost weight recently."
He simply replied, "Busy."
"What kind of busy?"
"Public opinion from the board of directors and investors." He paused, then added, "And construction."
Chen Chen raised an eyebrow and asked, "You have someone in your heart?"
He paused for a moment before speaking: "She's like a knife, not for cutting people, but for cutting through cocoons."
"You've taken a liking to her?"
He paused for a second: "She's not like others. She's like mist, always appearing and disappearing on the boundaries of my control, never forcing me to take a step, yet making me unable to resist looking to see where she is."
"Is she flirting with you?"
"Not that kind of thing. She knows her limits and knows what I'm afraid of. She doesn't move, waiting for me to cross the line myself."
Chen Chen leaned back in his chair, unusually serious, and asked, "So, did you cross it?"
He tapped his knuckles on the rim of the glass, but no sound came out: "I'm slowing down."
Chen Chen looked at him for a moment: "Slow doesn't mean not going. You know the reality for people like us; relationships are never just between two people. Maybe you just want some fresh air right now, but if that step is a cliff, are you prepared to fall together?"
He didn't answer, only chuckled softly. It wasn't a laugh of relief, but rather a gentle cracking sound like a fissure in his heart. He knew this path was neither easy nor short; their identities, backgrounds, and plans—everything weighed on him like lead. Yet he couldn't help wondering, if she were to reach out, would he still jump?
"Remember this for now." Chen Chen tapped the table. "The project is in the review phase, and personal interactions will be amplified. Don't push yourself during night drills in the dark. Your stomach can't handle it, so don't eat coffee for dinner anymore. And there's more—"
He raised his hand to stop him: "I know."
Chen Chen raised an eyebrow: "Knowing doesn't mean doing."
[Resort, Promenade, Night]
Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, and the wind pushed the smell of seafood inward. A motion-sensor light snapped on, and he stopped at the end of the corridor, seeing her also stop in the distance. The light at either end resembled two small islands, separated by a dim section.
She raised her finger and drew a small circle in the air, then tapped it lightly. She didn't smile, but her eyes shone, as if to say, "I'm here." She stood still, neither urging nor retreating.
He first glanced at the dark corner of the corridor, then returned his gaze to her. Just half a step forward. He twitched his finger, but didn't go over. The lights dimmed, leaving only the sound of the wind and the lapping of water in the distance. He continued walking.
[Resort, Staff Dormitory. Night]
As night deepened, the coconut palms by the window swayed in the wind, casting dappled shadows on the wall. She stood before the easel, wearing a loose shirt, her fingertips dipped in paint, spreading a large expanse of blue-gray across the canvas, like the mist where the sea meets the night. She had no sketches, no plans, gently touching green and ochre stroke by stroke in the center of the canvas, then pushing them away.
It was a creation born of feeling, like her approach to him—unplanned, yet undeniably real. She brushed a splash of bright white into the center of the canvas, like a lamp suddenly lit in the night—the direction the exit allowed. She paused, whispering, "You are actually getting closer, aren't you?"
She traced a small, misty white circle in the center of the screen with her fingertip, like the circle she drew in mid-air in the corridor, stopping just short of making a mark. The phone remained silent; there were no new notifications.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wiping the paint off her fingertips, and asked herself, "Or have you already gone back behind the wall?"
The cell phone next to my pillow vibrated.
Was that circle you just saw considered a threat?
She replied: [Consider it a reminder. If you're scared, just say so; if it hurts, bite.]
Another tremor.
【Then you can take care of it】
She stared at the screen and smiled, muttering, "Give me control over the teeth." She placed the empty cup by the window and pressed a tiny circle into the fogged glass again, without wiping it away.
[Resort, within the park, daytime]
The light the next day was clean, as if washed by the wind. She carried her drawing tube through the corridor and met him at the corner. He glanced at the red dot on the security camera, then looked back at her face. She raised her hand and drew a small circle in the air, her fingertip touching his cuff for a fleeting moment before withdrawing: "Lend me a minute today."
He turned to the side: "Speak."
She spread two small sketches on the bar counter and pointed with her fingertips: "Since the poolside relaxation area is open, I will design one side as a lounge chair area and the other side as a sofa area, using lighting to define the layers and atmosphere."
He glanced at it and said casually, "As you wish."
She hummed in agreement, her eyes brightening slightly: "Use my picture."
She flipped the manuscript back and put it away, then turned to leave. He watched her retreating figure, his fingers twitching slightly beneath his sleeve, as if pressing back a superfluous word.
[Seaside View Building, Lights Tested at Dusk]
As dusk settled, the light shifted from cold to warm. She stood on the edge of the bar, the lamplight behind her elongating her shadow. The construction workers hung up the newly installed signboard, its lines minimalist, much like her.
He and she stood side by side across the bar, just close enough to catch their breath. She gestured for one of the corner lights to be turned down half a level, softening the light on the counter. He looked at her profile and asked, "Tired?"
She didn't look at him, but smiled and said, "You feel sorry for me."
He paused for a moment: "Procedure."
She tilted her head, her eyes crinkling into a smile: "You're learning to slow down."
He didn't deny it, but brought the conversation back to the context: "Where there are people, the lights should seem to breathe."
She added, "They also need to act quiet."
He whispered, "Like you."
She paused for a moment, her smile fading, as if she were taking something back or keeping something close to her heart.
[Staff cafeteria, lunchtime]
Steam rose from the staff meals, and the trays clinked against the counter a few times. She stood behind him in line, holding the drawing tube in one hand and the plate in the other. When it was his turn, he chose light vegetables and plain porridge. When it was her turn, she whispered to the server, "Two scoops of porridge."
He took a step forward, then suddenly stopped. She sat beside him by the window. She scooped up a spoonful of porridge and blew on it to cool it: "Your stomach doesn't need to take its medicine today."
He said casually, "We'll talk about it later."
She tapped the table with her spoon: "Can you translate that into a language I understand?"
He looked up at her and said, "Thank you."
She smiled slightly and continued eating quietly. Outside the window, the wind rustled through the coconut leaves, casting shadows that rippled on the wall like waves.
[Park News Brief, Evening]
She said, "The little teapot looks really nice today. You actually like simple things."
He: [Clean]
She: [Would your purity also allow me to be included?]
He paused for a long time before finally replying: "Don't get yourself dirty."
She stared at that sentence and smiled, her fingertips tapping on the screen for a long time before finally replying: 【I have a built-in cleaning function】
[Long Corridor, Night]
The night breeze lowered the temperature by a notch. She walked down the corridor, her footsteps forming a rhythmic beat under the eaves. He came from the other end, and the two stopped at the edge of the same lamp.
She raised her hand and, just like last night, drew a circle in the air, landing not on him, but in the air in front of him. She said, "I won't push you."
He looked at the circle and said softly, "I know."
She said, "But you can come over by yourself."
He hesitated for a second, then took a step forward. She didn't move. She took another step forward, and he stopped. They were so close they could hear each other's breathing, yet there was still a safe distance between them.
He whispered, "This is fine."
She smiled and said, "Then I'll stand here."
The wind passed between them, not cold, carrying the saltiness of the sea and the green of the grass. She stopped drawing circles, and he stopped retreating. That sliver of light enveloped them both, like an unspoken agreement.
[Employee dormitory, late at night]
She returned to her room and spread out the drafts from the day on the table, each stroke clean and the lines crisp. In a blank corner, she wrote a few words: "Just make sure the boundaries are visible." She picked up her phone and sent him a photo—a small circle on the condensation by the window.
She: [You took two steps today]
He: [I'm slow]
She: [I know. I can wait.]
She closed her phone, leaned back in her chair, stared at the shadows on the ceiling, and closed her eyes. She didn't need to push him; she just needed to stand in that light so he would remember someone was there.
[President's Office, Night]
He sat behind the table, the black matte-colored mug sitting on one corner, its rim gleaming dullly under the light. He moved the rim half an inch to the side, his gaze lingering on the small empty space, as if making room for something. He didn't reply to her last words, but simply flipped his phone over, his fingertip tapping on the empty space on the edge of the table, as if pressing his heartbeat back down.
The sea breeze outside the window chased away the daytime stuffiness, and the lights in the park went out one by one. He closed his folder, stood up, and walked to the coat rack. The coat with the small fox pattern hidden in the cuffs hung quietly. He reached out and touched the seams, then put it on without changing into another coat.
He turned off the office light and walked into the corridor. The glass in the night cast a long shadow of him. He didn't rush, pausing for half a step before passing each motion-sensor light. It was as if he was learning to slow down, and also as if he was learning not to shy away.
[Industrial Park, before midnight]
A cleaning truck drove by slowly in the distance, its sound barely audible. The sea breeze pushed the first rays of dawn out from behind the clouds; the sky was still pale. He stopped at the end of the glass corridor and glanced back at the path he had come from. The space where she had circled the sky last night was empty, yet it seemed to retain a trace of warmth.
He thought to himself, "I've arrived." Then he turned and left.
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