At three in the morning, only the low hum of the air conditioner's outdoor unit could be heard in the studio. Ah Yu rubbed his aching neck and looked up. The blue light from the computer screen cast a cold glow on his face. He had only typed half of the project report in the document. The night outside the window was as thick as ink, with only a few lights shining from the office building across the street, like lonely stars trapped in the deep sea.
He got up to heat up some milk in the break room. As he passed the glass partition, he glimpsed the light still on in the maintenance room next door. A blurry profile was reflected in the frosted glass, the figure standing very straight, seemingly holding something in their hand, motionless.
Ah Yu carried over the warmed milk, and the moment she pushed open the door, the smell of disinfectant mixed with lens cleaner wafted out. Zhong Hua sat at the long table, the lamplight falling directly on the camera in his hand. He was holding a silver magnifying glass, his eyelashes drooping low, casting a faint shadow under his eyes, softening even the lines of his nose. Disassembled lens parts were spread out on the table like an open star map, with tweezers and screwdrivers neatly arranged beside them.
"Still not asleep?" Ah Yu pushed the milk cup toward him, the bottom of the cup hitting the table with a soft sound.
Zhong Hua looked away from the camera, his eyelashes trembling, before turning his head. His eyes were bloodshot, probably from staying up late, and his voice was lower and hoarse than usual: "Almost done."
Ah Yu watched as he brought the magnifying glass back to the lens, the small brush between his fingers gently brushing across the lens, his movements as steady as a precision instrument. "Don't boil it anymore," he said, shoving the milk into Zhong Hua's hand, the warmth of the cup seeping through the thin porcelain. "I remember when you were in college, you stayed up all night making models, and you were unsteady on your feet the next day."
It was during his junior year, when the department held a structural design competition. Zhong Hua stayed up two nights a night assembling a steel structure model. Ah Yu went to the lab late at night to bring him a late-night snack and saw him struggling to stand, his knee hitting the metal frame with a loud thud. He just frowned and continued adjusting the model's angle. The next day, during the defense, Zhong Hua stood on the stage, and Ah Yu clearly saw his heels trembling slightly, as if he were walking on cotton.
Zhong Hua took the milk and drank a sip. The warm liquid slid down his throat, and his Adam's apple bobbed before he pointed to the camera on the table and said, "The lens is stuck. You need it tomorrow."
It was an old-fashioned film camera, a treasure Ah Yu had found after searching through countless flea markets. Last week, when he went to photograph the old street, the film somehow jammed, and he couldn't press the shutter. He casually left it in the repair shop and had long forgotten about it, but he didn't expect Zhong Hua to remember it.
“We can do it tomorrow,” Ah Yu said, bending down to look at the pile of parts. Suddenly, she noticed a band-aid on Zhong Hua’s right index finger, the edges of which were a little white. “What happened to your hand?”
Zhong Hua subconsciously curled his fingers and hid the band-aid in his palm: "I got scratched by the metal edge when I was disassembling the lens, it's nothing."
Ah Yu had already reached out and grabbed his wrist, lifting his hand to examine it closely. The band-aid was the kind the studio always kept on hand, off-white, with a little transparent glue residue, probably from rubbing off parts. "Where did this metal edge come from?" He remembered that the lens mount on this camera was plastic. "Did you take something else apart?"
Zhong Hua remained silent, which was taken as tacit agreement. Ah Yu suddenly remembered that she had complained about the telephoto lens's inaccurate focus last week, and casually remarked that "it might be due to loose internal gears." She didn't expect Zhong Hua to remember even that.
"Let go." Ah Yu frowned, his tone carrying a hint of urgency he himself didn't realize. He pulled Zhong Hua toward the tea room, while also picking up the first-aid kit from the table with his other hand.
Zhong Hua was being pulled along by him, her steps a little unsteady, but she didn't break free. She just whispered, "It's really nothing, just a little scrape."
Ah Yu pressed him down onto a chair in the tea room. When she tore off the bandage, she realized the wound was deeper than she had imagined, probably from being scratched by the sharp edge of a precision gear. It was still oozing a few drops of blood. She took an iodine swab and gently applied it to the wound. Zhong Hua's fingers recoiled slightly, but he still obediently let her treat it.
“You were like this in college too,” Ah Yu paused, the cotton swab in her hand, suddenly remembering that in her sophomore year, Ah Yu had squatted by the pond for half an hour in the rain to take pictures of lotus flowers, and then developed a fever. Zhong Hua carried her to the school hospital, slipped on the way, and bruised her knee on the steps, but only frowned and asked, “Are you cold?” Later, Ah Yu found a bottle of safflower oil in her drawer and learned about this incident.
Zhong Hua looked at him, his head bowed in concentration, his eyelashes drooping, casting a shadow on his eyelids like a bird with its wings folded. "Back then, you insisted that the lotus flowers in the rain had a spirit," he suddenly said, his voice very soft, "and we couldn't stop you."
Ah Yu smiled, applied the new band-aid, and her fingertips accidentally touched Zhong Hua's palm, which felt as hot as if she were holding a ball of fire. He quickly withdrew his hand, pretending to pack up the first-aid kit, his voice a little unnatural: "Isn't it the same now? If the camera gets stuck, we have to fix it overnight."
Zhong Hua didn't reply, but simply picked up the glass of milk and took another sip. The warm liquid flowed down his throat, seemingly soothing the dryness caused by staying up all night. He watched Ah Yu's retreating figure as she turned away, the hem of her T-shirt brushing against the corner of the table, stirring up tiny specks of dust that danced in the lamplight.
When Ah Yu returned to the repair room, she found that Zhong Hua had picked up the magnifying glass again. The light from the desk lamp fell on his profile, clearly outlining the curve of his jawline, like a meticulously drawn sketch. Ah Yu walked over and sat down in the chair next to him, without saying a word, simply picking up the parts catalog on the table and flipping through it.
The only sounds in the air were the occasional soft click of the magnifying glass moving and Zhong Hua's steady breathing. Ah Yu flipped through the picture book, but his eyes kept glancing to the side. He saw Zhong Hua carefully putting a small gear back in place with tweezers, his movements as precise as if he were performing a micro-surgery. He suddenly remembered when Zhong Hua helped him repair his camera in college, doing the same thing, arranging the disassembled parts neatly, even sorting the screws by size.
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