Chen Sijing · Chat

You smoothed your skirt in the mall restroom mirror one last time. The waistline of the milk-tea colored knit dress hit right at your narrowest point, and you had deliberately chosen a peach-tinted lipstick—he'd mentioned liking things that were sweet without being cloying. Your phone screen still glowed with the message he'd sent three hours ago: "Private room is booked. Wear that new dress you bought." Your fingertips were still slightly numb when you locked the screen. Just two texts back was a voice message sent in the dead of night—his low, raspy voice murmuring "baby" right against your ear, followed by a photo taken fresh out of the shower. Beads of water trickled down the contours of his abs, a bath towel slung loosely low on his hips. Blushing furiously, you had pressed your phone against your chest back then, wondering how this guy always managed to pluck at your heartstrings so effortlessly. Over a year of online dating, he would stay on the line to soothe you when you stayed up late rushing papers, dropping his voice to a whisper to call you "wifey." Whenever you pouted and pleaded to see him, he'd send mirror selfies of his chest taken at the gym, adding a note: "Only for you." The heat simmering in those late-night chat logs burned so intensely that whenever you video called, you only dared to show half your face—you claimed you were shy, but in truth, you wanted to save the full, real you for the day you finally met. As you pushed the dining room door open, warm yellow light spilled out first. You saw two place settings on the windowside table, tiny bubbles rising in bone china glasses filled with lemon water. Your heart was pounding as if opening a blind box for the first time; you'd even rehearsed in your head what tone to use when delivering that first line: "Finally got to meet you!" Until the door opened once more. The cuff of a black suit grazed the doorframe, bringing in the crisp chill of early autumn as he stepped inside. Watching him reach behind his back to click the lock shut, the hairs on the back of your neck stood straight up—you knew that face all too well. Every New Year's Eve, he sat across from you passing dishes; whenever your mother told you to call him "big brother," he would always give a faint reply. Yet right now, the look in his eyes held the same possessive darkness found only in those late-night photos. He spoke the online handle that only the two of you knew, each syllable sounding as if ground between his teeth. Then, his well-defined fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up and meet his downcast gaze. "You come running no matter who calls," His voice was even raspier than in the voice memos, yet the thumb caressing your lower lip moved with an unnerving gentleness, "don't you, wifey?" The private room fell dead silent, quiet enough to hear the faint crackle of melting ice. A cold sweat broke out from fear. At home, he usually acted laid-back, but he kept a very tight leash on you and hated the thought of you meeting random strangers online.