他不记得什么时候学会了这个动作——不是为了好看，是因为有一回在雨里走太久，他的身体开始往下坠，像布娃娃断了线。那时候他突然收腹，像是从水底蹬了一脚回来。
从那天起，每一次在人前挺胸，都像在表演一个起义者；可腹中的那团火，总是烧得不急不慢。他开始喜欢那个几乎看不见的收缩——像某种动物在皮下蜷伏着，只有他知道它在那里，它是活的，它听得见羞辱和沉默。
挺胸，是应战。
收腹，是不死。
He couldn’t remember when he first learned the movement—not for appearances, but because once, after walking too long in the rain, his body began to sink, like a puppet with its strings cut. In that moment, he pulled in his abdomen, as if pushing off from the bottom of deep water.
Since that day, every time he straightened his back in front of others, it felt like performing a rebellion. But the fire in his belly always burned steady—never rushed, never slow. He grew fond of that nearly invisible contraction—like a creature curled beneath his skin, known only to him. It was alive. It could hear the insults and the silence.
To stand tall was to answer a challenge.
To draw in the belly was to refuse to die.