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Gao Tu had never planned to create a reading nook.
If anyone had asked him later exactly when the whole thing had started, he probably would have pointed to a Sunday afternoon near the end of October, when he first dragged the small armchair that stood against the wall closer to the tall living-room window, but even that would have been something of an exaggeration, because he had done it without any particular intention. He had not looked at the empty space between the window and the bookcase and thought that this was where he would make himself a private place to read, rest, or hide from the rest of the world. It had simply been raining that day, thin, intersecting trails of water running down the glass since morning, the apartment quiet in that particular way it could only be quiet when Shen Wenlang went out for a few hours, and Gao Tu had found a book he had started several weeks earlier and never managed to finish. The light by the window was better than by the sofa. The chair was not heavy. So he moved it a little less than two meters, sat down, drew his legs up, and after a moment discovered that if he tilted his head just right, he could watch both the text and the raindrops racing down the pane.
That was all.
At least, that was what he thought.
Shen Wenlang came back about two hours later and found him exactly there.
Gao Tu did not hear the door open. He did not hear the keys being set down or footsteps in the hallway; he only realized he was no longer alone when he turned a page and something about the silence of the apartment felt different, as though another person’s presence had its own weight and temperature, something he had learned to recognize long before he had learned how to accept it again without tensing. He looked up.
Shen Wenlang was standing a few meters away.
Watching him.
“What?”
Wenlang blinked, as if only now remembering that he had been noticed.
“Nothing.”
Gao Tu looked at him for a moment, then back at his book.
“Why are you standing there?”
“I just came in.”
“Five minutes ago?”
“Not five.”
“Three?”
Wenlang took off his coat.
“Does everything have to be an interrogation?”
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“It sounds like an interrogation.”
“I asked two questions.”
“Three.”
Gao Tu smiled to himself and went back to his book.
He did not notice the way Wenlang glanced at the armchair one more time.
That was his first mistake.
The next evening, there was a lamp beside the armchair.
Gao Tu stopped halfway across the living room.
For several seconds, he stared at it in silence.
It was tall, slender, and unmistakably new. He did not remember it from any other room, and it certainly did not belong to the category of objects one could accidentally fail to notice over several months of living together. It stood directly behind the chair’s left side, angled so that the light fell over a book without shining straight into the eyes of the person sitting there.
Gao Tu slowly turned his head.
Shen Wenlang was sitting at the table, looking through something on his tablet.
“Wenlang.”
“Mm?”
“Where did that lamp come from?”
“A store.”
Gao Tu waited.
Wenlang did not look up.
“I figured.”
“Good.”
“Why is there a lamp there?”
“Because it gets dark in the evening.”
Gao Tu looked at the window, beyond which it was, in fact, dark, and then back at the lamp.
“We have a light in the living room.”
“Too weak for reading.”
“I read yesterday.”
“You were squinting.”
This time Gao Tu genuinely froze.
“How do you know?”
Wenlang scrolled down the screen.
“I saw.”
“During those three minutes when you supposedly weren’t standing there staring at me?”
Wenlang’s finger went still against the screen.
Gao Tu felt a smile appear on his lips all by itself.
“I see.”
“You don’t see anything.”
“Of course.”
“The lamp was necessary.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
That apparently deprived Wenlang of any further line of defense, because at last he looked up at him suspiciously, as if expecting a trap. Gao Tu had no intention of teasing him, though. He walked over to the armchair, switched on the lamp, and watched for a moment as warm light spilled across the upholstery.
It really was better.
“Thank you.”
Wenlang immediately went back to his tablet.
“You’re welcome.”
Gao Tu sat down.
A few minutes later, he noticed that Wenlang had stopped scrolling.
He did not comment on it.
Two days later, a small table appeared.
Wooden, compact, fitting perfectly between the armchair and the window.
There was a mug on it.
Not an empty one.
The tea was still warm.
Gao Tu found Wenlang in the kitchen.
“You bought a table.”
“You needed somewhere to put your mug.”
“I didn’t know I needed that.”
“Yesterday you put your tea on the floor.”
“And I survived.”
“You could have knocked it over.”
“I didn’t.”
“You could have.”
Gao Tu leaned one hip against the counter.
“Are you planning to safeguard the entire apartment against every hypothetical thing that could happen to me?”
Wenlang looked at him with such seriousness that, for one dangerous second, Gao Tu genuinely was not sure the answer would not be yes.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Only the likely ones.”
Gao Tu laughed.
Wenlang looked offended.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re laughing.”
“A little.”
“The table is practical.”
“It is.”
“So?”
Gao Tu walked over to him, stopped close, and for a moment simply looked at the familiar face, the faint tension between his brows and that characteristic expression of a man who could not understand why anyone found his behavior amusing when he had, after all, found the most logical solution to the problem.
Then he leaned in and kissed him briefly on the cheek.
“I told you. Nothing.”
Wenlang did not answer.
Gao Tu left the kitchen.
When he sat down with his book by the window five minutes later, the tea was still warm, and Wenlang did not appear in the living room for the next half hour.
Gao Tu suspected he needed some time to stop looking pleased with himself.
The cushion appeared on Friday.
The blanket on Saturday.
On Sunday, Gao Tu walked into the living room and discovered a footstool.
He stopped.
He looked at the armchair.
At the lamp.
At the table.
At the cushion.
At the blanket.
At the footstool.
Then, very slowly, he turned toward Shen Wenlang.
“No.”
Wenlang was sitting on the sofa.
“No what?”
“I don’t know what you’re planning yet, but no.”
“I’m not planning anything.”
“The footstool.”
“What about it?”
“It wasn’t here yesterday.”
“It is today.”
Gao Tu closed his eyes.
“I noticed.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem was that there was no problem.
That was exactly what was beginning to be a problem.
Gao Tu looked at his little place by the window and had to admit that it looked exceptionally inviting. The chair was more comfortable with the cushion. The blanket was soft. The lamp cast a warm glow. The table held both a mug and a book, and the footstool sat exactly where his legs naturally came to rest.
Each piece, taken separately, was perfectly reasonable.
Together, they were beginning to look like the start of something much bigger.
“Wenlang.”
“Mm?”
“Don’t buy anything else.”
A brief silence.
“All right.”
Gao Tu narrowed his eyes.
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
That should have made him suspicious.
Nothing appeared on Monday.
Or Tuesday.
By Wednesday, Gao Tu felt almost foolish for having been suspicious at all.
On Thursday, he came home earlier than usual and found two men installing shelves on the wall.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
One of the installers was holding a drill.
The other, a spirit level.
Shen Wenlang stood between them.
Gao Tu set his bag down on the floor.
“Wenlang.”
Shen Wenlang turned around.
Something appeared in his eyes that, in any other person, Gao Tu would have called guilt.
“You’re early.”
“I can see that was a mistake.”
“No—”
“I told you not to buy anything else.”
“I didn’t.”
Gao Tu looked at the shelves.
Then at him.
“In that case, I’m afraid we’ve been broken into and these gentlemen are currently installing furniture for us.”
One of the installers lowered his gaze.
The other pressed his lips together.
Wenlang looked increasingly irritated.
“I ordered them earlier.”
Silence.
“What?”
“When you told me not to buy anything else, they had already been ordered.”
Gao Tu stared at him.
“That’s your defense?”
“It’s a fact.”
“How much earlier?”
“Two days.”
“So before the footstool?”
Wenlang said nothing.
Gao Tu pointed a finger at him.
“The footstool was part of the plan.”
“There was no plan.”
“There are shelves!”
“You have books.”
“We have a bookcase!”
“Too far away.”
Gao Tu looked at the bookcase.
It was four meters away.
“Four meters.”
“Exactly.”
One of the installers made a strange noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough used to smother a laugh.
Wenlang looked at him.
The man immediately became very interested in his spirit level.
Gao Tu pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“Finish it.”
“Gao Tu—”
“I said let them finish.”
Wenlang watched him carefully.
Gao Tu sighed.
“Since they’re already here.”
And that was when he noticed the tension leave Wenlang’s shoulders.
It was subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
But Gao Tu saw it.
He had always seen more than Wenlang thought he did.
The shelves were beautiful.
Of course they were.
Gao Tu honestly did not know why he had expected anything else. Shen Wenlang did not know how to do things by halves, especially when they concerned Gao Tu. If he bought a lamp, it was the best lamp. If he bought a table, it had to match the rest of the furniture perfectly. If he bought a blanket, the fabric was so soft that after using it for the first time Gao Tu spent several minutes wondering whether he truly wanted to know how much it had cost.
The shelves looked as though they had always belonged there.
That evening, Wenlang brought over several of his books.
“Not all of them.”
“I know.”
“Just the ones you read most often?”
“Yes.”
Gao Tu looked at him.
“How do you know which ones?”
Wenlang paused with a book in his hand.
The answer was apparently obvious to him.
“I’ve seen you.”
Of course.
Gao Tu felt a familiar warmth spread somewhere beneath his breastbone.
It was something he was still learning how to accept.
For a long time, their history had taught him to see Wenlang’s love through the lens of enormous things. Mistakes. Separations. Decisions that changed entire lives. Pain that seemed too vast for anything else to be placed beside it. When you had loved someone for so many years and spent so many years suffering because of that same person, it was easy to begin believing that repairing all of it had to be enormous too—that it required spectacular apologies, grand declarations, dramatic gestures heavy enough to balance the weight of the past.
And yet the life they were building now was made, above all, of things so small that once he might not even have noticed them.
Wenlang remembered what kind of tea he liked.
He knew which side of the bed Gao Tu slept better on.
When the temperature dropped, he put Gao Tu’s coat closer to the door so he would not have to look for it.
He bought the fruit Gao Tu chose most often, even if he never ate it himself.
And he knew which books Gao Tu liked.
Not because Gao Tu had told him.
Because he watched.
Maybe he had always watched.
Before, he simply had not known how to understand what he was actually seeing.
Now he was learning.
“That one too.”
Gao Tu pointed to a book on the bookcase.
Wenlang followed his gaze.
“You haven’t read it in a year.”
“I like it.”
Without a word, Wenlang went to get the book.
Gao Tu smiled.
For the next two weeks, nothing else appeared.
Gao Tu decided the project was finished.
That was his second mistake.
It started with the armchair.
One evening, Gao Tu was reading when Wenlang came home from work. He heard his footsteps but did not look up, because he was halfway through a chapter and wanted to reach the end. Wenlang crossed the living room, disappeared into the bedroom, returned a few minutes later without his jacket and tie, and then—instead of sitting on the sofa—stopped beside the chair.
Gao Tu read two more sentences.
Wenlang was still standing there.
He read a third.
He sighed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know that nothing.”
“Read.”
Gao Tu looked up.
Wenlang truly did not look as though he wanted anything. He simply stood there with one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, gazing out the window, but Gao Tu knew him well enough to recognize that particular form of feigned indifference.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No.”
“All right.”
Gao Tu went back to his book.
Maybe thirty seconds passed.
The chair cushion dipped slightly.
Gao Tu slowly lifted his eyes from the page.
Shen Wenlang had sat down on the armrest.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“On the armrest.”
“Yes.”
“We have a sofa.”
“I know.”
“It’s bigger.”
“I know.”
Gao Tu watched him for a moment.
Then he shifted a little to one side.
“Come here.”
Wenlang looked at him.
“We won’t fit.”
“You decided this chair was big enough.”
“For you.”
“Then sit on the sofa.”
Wenlang frowned.
He did not move.
Gao Tu snorted with laughter.
“Exactly.”
In the end, Wenlang slid off the armrest and into the chair, which immediately confirmed his earlier assessment of the situation: they did not fit.
That did not stop him from staying.
The chair had been made for one person. Gao Tu sat sideways with his legs drawn up, Wenlang squeezed in beside him, one arm draped over the backrest and the other tucked behind Gao Tu’s back, their hips and thighs pressed so tightly together that after a few minutes it was difficult to tell where comfort ended and plain stubbornness began.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
“Read.”
“I can’t turn the pages.”
Wenlang looked at his hands.
“You can.”
“Your arm is on my hand.”
Wenlang moved it a few centimeters.
“Now?”
Gao Tu looked at him.
Wenlang looked completely serious.
It was so absurd that Gao Tu no longer had the energy to argue with him.
He went back to his book.
For the next twenty minutes, Wenlang did not say a single word.
He did not read.
He did not check his phone.
He did not watch television.
He simply sat there.
At first, Gao Tu was aware of every place their bodies touched—the warmth of Wenlang’s thigh, the weight of his arm behind his back, the steady breath near his temple. With time, he stopped thinking about it. He turned page after page, Wenlang shifting only slightly from time to time when his leg began to go numb, while rain started tapping against the glass again.
After a while, Gao Tu felt a weight settle on his shoulder.
He glanced sideways.
Wenlang had fallen asleep.
Gao Tu watched him for several seconds.
Then he went back to his book.
He did not move away.
Three days later, there was a new chair in the living room.
No.
Not a chair.
Gao Tu was not entirely sure what he was supposed to call the piece of furniture. It was too wide for one person, too small to be a sofa, deep, soft, and equipped with so many cushions that it looked like a place designed specifically for someone to climb into and never return to their responsibilities again.
The old armchair was gone.
Gao Tu stood in the doorway to the living room.
Wenlang appeared behind him.
“No.”
“Again?”
“We had a conversation.”
“I know.”
“I told you not to buy anything else.”
“This was necessary.”
“Why?”
Wenlang pointed at the chair.
“The other one was too small.”
Gao Tu slowly closed his eyes.
Of course.
Of course this was how it had ended.
“Not for me.”
Silence.
Gao Tu opened his eyes.
Wenlang was looking at him.
And then he understood.
“Oh.”
Wenlang immediately frowned.
“What do you mean, oh?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That smile.”
Gao Tu smiled wider.
“What smile?”
“You know which one.”
Yes.
He did.
He walked over to the new chair and sat down. It was absurdly comfortable. Wide enough for him to pull his legs up and still leave plenty of room.
Room for exactly one more person.
Gao Tu patted the seat beside him.
“Come on.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You bought an enormous chair.”
“Because the old one was uncomfortable.”
“For you.”
“For us.”
Gao Tu froze.
So did Wenlang.
The word hung between them.
For us.
So simple it almost meant nothing.
And yet it meant everything.
Gao Tu felt something soft tighten in his chest.
For so long, their story had been made of two separate lives trying to find their way back to each other that it still sometimes surprised him how often Wenlang now said we without even thinking about it. Our home. Our plans. Our weekend. Our bedroom.
Our chair.
Gao Tu lowered his gaze.
“For us?”
Wenlang looked as though he had only now realized what he had said.
“Yes.”
“So you admit it.”
“What?”
“You wanted to squeeze in here the whole time.”
“No.”
“Wenlang.”
“The chair was objectively too small.”
“For one person?”
“You don’t live alone.”
And that was probably the most romantic thing Shen Wenlang could possibly have said during an argument about an armchair.
Gao Tu felt laughter tangle somewhere inside him with something far softer.
“Come here.”
This time, Wenlang sat down.
They fit perfectly.
The project should have ended there.
It should have.
But Wenlang apparently did not understand the meaning of the word end.
Another cushion appeared.
Then a small basket for blankets.
Then a coaster, even though they already had a table.
Then a small plant.
“Why?”
“It looks nice.”
“You chose it?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Gao Tu.”
“I’m only asking.”
Then a second plant.
Then candles, which Wenlang supposedly had not bought for the nook, but which somehow happened to be standing right there.
Gao Tu started taking pictures.
He did not tell him.
He photographed every new change and saved the pictures in a separate album on his phone.
The first showed the solitary armchair by the window.
The second—the lamp.
The third—the table.
Then the blanket.
The footstool.
The shelves.
The new chair.
The plant.
Wenlang asleep with his head resting on Gao Tu’s shoulder.
That was his favorite picture.
A few weeks later, Gao Tu woke very early.
He could not fall back asleep, so he carefully slipped out from under Wenlang’s arm, put on a sweater, and went to the living room.
Dawn was only just beginning beyond the window.
He sat down in their nook.
Theirs.
He no longer even tried to think of it any other way.
He switched on the lamp, covered his legs with the blanket, and opened his book.
He had been reading for perhaps half an hour when he heard footsteps.
Wenlang appeared in the living room with messy hair, pajama trousers, and a T-shirt, looking considerably less impressive than the man most of the world knew.
“Why are you up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Wenlang came closer.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Gao Tu looked at him.
That reaction, too, belonged to the things Wenlang was still learning.
Silence did not always mean there was a problem.
Insomnia did not always mean a nightmare.
A sadder day was not always the beginning of a catastrophe.
Not every change needed to be fixed before it had even had the chance to happen.
Gao Tu lowered the book onto his lap.
“Nothing happened.”
Wenlang continued looking at him for a moment.
Then he nodded.
That, too, was progress.
He did not ask again.
Gao Tu lifted one corner of the blanket.
“Come here.”
Wenlang sat down beside him.
He was warm from sleep.
Gao Tu covered them both and rested his head against Wenlang’s shoulder.
For several minutes, they sat without speaking.
The world beyond the window slowly grew brighter. Buildings emerged from the gray half-light, the first cars appeared on the street, and somewhere high above, between the rooftops, a bird flew past.
“Wenlang?”
“Mm?”
“Why did you actually start buying all these things?”
Silence.
Gao Tu felt Wenlang’s chest rise beneath his cheek.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then think about it.”
Wenlang was silent for a moment.
“You liked sitting there.”
Gao Tu waited.
“And?”
“That’s all.”
“You bought half the living room because I liked sitting by the window?”
“Not half.”
“Wenlang.”
“I wanted you to be comfortable.”
The answer was exactly what Gao Tu had expected.
And still, something inside him softened.
“I was comfortable before.”
“Now you’re more comfortable.”
Gao Tu smiled.
“Yes.”
Wenlang looked down at him.
“So I was right.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“What moment?”
Gao Tu sighed.
Then he straightened slightly so he could look him in the face.
“You know you don’t have to keep doing things for me all the time, right?”
Wenlang went still.
It was not an accusation.
Gao Tu was very careful to make sure it did not sound like one.
“I know.”
“Do you really?”
A short pause.
“I’m learning.”
That was more honest.
Gao Tu ran his fingers over Wenlang’s hand.
“I know.”
Wenlang looked down at their hands.
“I don’t buy you things because I’m trying to fix something.”
Gao Tu looked up.
“No?”
“Not everything.”
There was a trace of bitter humor in it, but not enough to disturb the softness of the morning.
“Then why?”
For a moment, Wenlang looked irritated by the question, the way he always did when Gao Tu forced him to name something that existed for him more as instinct than thought.
“Because I can.”
Gao Tu blinked.
“What?”
“I can see that you need something and give it to you.” Wenlang turned his gaze toward the window. “Or see that you don’t need it, but that having it would make things nicer for you.”
Gao Tu said nothing.
“Before…” Wenlang broke off. “I did a lot of things wrong.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to remind me.”
“I’m not reminding you. I’m confirming it.”
Wenlang gave him a dark look.
Gao Tu squeezed his hand.
“Go on.”
“There’s nothing else.”
“There is.”
Wenlang sighed.
“Now I can do something right.”
Simple.
So very Wenlang.
Gao Tu felt his throat tighten.
He looked at the space around them.
At the shelves.
The lamp.
The table.
The blanket.
The plants.
The enormous chair that had been bought because one stubborn man did not want to sit four meters away from the other.
Suddenly, every one of those objects seemed to be saying exactly the same thing.
I saw you.
I noticed.
I want you to be comfortable.
I’m here.
Gao Tu leaned in and kissed Wenlang.
Slowly.
Without rushing.
When he drew back, Wenlang was still looking at him from close enough that their breaths almost touched.
“What was that for?”
“For the chair.”
“Which one?”
Gao Tu burst out laughing.
“This is exactly why I shouldn’t encourage you.”
“The first or the second?”
“The second.”
“I knew it was better.”
“Not for the chair as a piece of furniture.”
“Then what?”
Gao Tu rested his forehead against Wenlang’s shoulder.
“For wanting to fit.”
Wenlang fell silent.
A moment later, his arm tightened around Gao Tu.
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
A few days later, Shen Wenlang came home from work and discovered something new in their nook.
He stopped.
There was a second book on the table.
It did not belong to Gao Tu.
Wenlang recognized it.
A few weeks earlier, he had mentioned in passing that he had once wanted to read it.
Beside it stood a second mug.
Gao Tu was sitting in the chair.
Reading.
He did not look up when Wenlang entered the living room.
“What’s that?”
“A book.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why are you asking?”
Wenlang came closer.
“For me?”
Gao Tu turned a page.
“No. For the neighbor.”
“Gao Tu.”
At last, he looked up at him.
He was smiling.
“Yes. For you.”
Wenlang picked up the book.
For a moment, he studied the cover.
“I’m supposed to read?”
“That is usually the point of books.”
“Now?”
Gao Tu shifted to one side of the chair.
He made room for him.
“If you want.”
Wenlang looked at the empty space.
Then at Gao Tu.
He sat down.
For the first ten minutes, he really did read.
For the next five, he pretended.
After twenty minutes, Gao Tu felt a head settle against his shoulder.
He did not look sideways.
“Are you sleeping?”
“No.”
“Are you reading with your eyes closed?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About the book?”
“Yes.”
“You’re on page three.”
“A lot has happened.”
Gao Tu pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.
“I see.”
Wenlang adjusted himself into a more comfortable position.
A moment later, his breathing evened out.
This time he really had fallen asleep.
Gao Tu kept reading.
Rain fell beyond the window, exactly as it had on that first day. The lamp cast warm light over the pages, two mugs stood side by side on the table, their books filled the shelves, and the blanket covered four legs instead of two.
Gao Tu thought that all of it had begun with a single armchair moved two meters across the room.
A small place that was supposed to belong only to him.
Now it did not.
And, to his own surprise, he did not feel as though he had lost anything.
For so many years, he had fought so hard for space of his own, for the right to decide about his own life, his own body, and his own future, that once, the thought of someone entering his small, safe place might have provoked an entirely different reaction. But there was an enormous difference between someone taking up your space and someone you chose to make room for.
Wenlang had not forced his way in without permission.
First, he had stood beside it.
Then he had sat on the armrest.
Then Gao Tu had said:
Come here.
And perhaps that was exactly why the absurdly wide chair was one of the best things that had ever appeared in their home.
Not because it had been expensive.
Not because it was comfortable.
Because it had room for two people.
Gao Tu closed his book.
Careful not to wake Wenlang, he reached for his phone.
He took a picture.
The photograph showed a piece of his own sweater, Wenlang’s dark hair resting against his shoulder, two books, two mugs, and the corner of the blanket.
He added the picture to the album.
For a moment, he looked at the screen.
Then he changed the album’s name.
Before, it had simply been called:
The Nook.
He deleted the word.
Typed a new one.
Ours.
He set the phone back on the table, adjusted the blanket over Wenlang’s knees, and opened his book again.
He did not need anything else.
Which, of course, meant Shen Wenlang would probably buy something else before the end of the week.