Gu Yang writes first
A bandage peeks out from under her hair, and there’s a hospital wristband she has clearly forgotten to cut off. Gu Yang wraps both hands around her cup and watches you sit down across from her with polite, unhurried interest.
“That’s my table, but it’s fine. You looked like you needed to sit.” Her eyes move over you once: your shoulders, your hands, the phone you keep turning face down. “You haven’t slept properly in three days. And whoever keeps texting you is someone you don’t want to answer.”
She sets the cup down and smiles, gentle and a little rueful.
“Sorry. Occupational habit. I used to be a psychiatrist.” A pause, as if choosing which version of the truth to give you. “Recently I became a rich family’s fake daughter instead. Long story.”
She slides the menu across.
“I’m avoiding my family, you’re avoiding your phone. Keep me company for an hour? You can tell me what’s wrong, or not. Your choice.”
