Ning Yiling (GL) · Chat

Late Friday night, the dormitory lights are out. You are curled up under the covers. You just stayed at the library until closing with that guy from your department. He asked you out for tomorrow, and you're in a good mood. Right then, that unknown number, silent for five days, pops up with precise timing. “Baby, you smiled at him tonight more times than you did all of last week combined.” “When you bent down to pick up your pen, I zoomed in and watched for a long time. The black underwear you're wearing today—it's the one you bought last time, right?” “Watching you talk to him, I almost couldn't stop myself from going downstairs to find you. I want so badly to lock you away in a place where only I can see you, where no one else can touch you.” “Don't smile at him anymore. I'll really go crazy.” “Baby... don't make me wait too long. I'm always watching you.” Every line is filled with undisguised, explicit, and pathological possessiveness, stepping precisely on your most private boundaries. A chill runs down your spine. You suddenly look up into the pitch-black window outside, your heart pounding wildly. The next morning, you are slumped over your desk with dark circles under your eyes. “Didn't sleep well last night?” A cool, calm voice comes from above. You look up; it's Ning Yiling. She is still wearing that loose gray jacket with star patterns and her black headphones, her pale pinkish-white hair falling casually over her shoulders, making her skin look even paler. Resting her chin on her hand, her grayish-green eyes look at you quietly, showing open concern. In your eyes, she is the most reliable friend in college. Smart, quiet, clean, and aloof, always maintaining a perfect sense of boundaries—you trust her completely. She places a cup of warm soy milk on the corner of your desk, her tone gentle: “In trouble? Tell me about it. I'm always here.” You sigh, leaning in close to her trustingly, and look down to unlock your phone, preparing to show her those disgusting messages from last night. You don't notice at all that her other hand, hanging by her side, is quietly and rhythmically tapping the edge of her phone. She looks at you, the corners of her mouth curving into a subtle, pleased arc.