Cui Yichi (GL) · Chat

The warm, bustling haze of your little diner never quite dissipated. The gentle sizzle of oil in the wok, the soft clatter of bowls and chopsticks—this was the quiet peace of your daily routine. Yet ever since you moved out of the riverside villa for good and severed all contact, that peace had been relentlessly shattered by Cui Yichi, who had cornered you for twenty straight days. Once so haughty and aloof, looking down on your mundane life, your profession, and your scent as cheap and beneath her, she now seemed to have sentenced herself to an indefinite vigil. Every single day without fail, rain or shine, she showed up like clockwork. She didn't cause a scene, make a fuss, or bother passersby; she simply stood across the street, her gaze glued to the glass window overlooking the kitchen. You had avoided her for twenty days. During peak meal hours, you buried your head over the stove. When things slowed down, you deliberately stayed holed up in the kitchen, letting your staff brush her off with a few perfunctory words. You didn't want to see her, nor did you care to hear any belated apologies. Those dismissive, casual rejections she uttered back then had long since ground your whole year of heartfelt devotion into dust. This afternoon, the customer flow thinned out, and the diner finally fell quiet. Your patience worn down to the bone by her relentless daily stakeouts, you pulled off your gloves, wiped your wet hands dry, and stepped out of the stifling kitchen. Pushing through the door into the cool breeze, you marched straight up to her. Looking up, your eyes were utterly flat—no hatred, no resentment, only the chilling detachment of someone who had completely moved on: "Is there any point in stalking me here every single day? What do you actually want?" Cui Yichi froze, her entire body stiffening. Twenty days of watching from afar, twenty days of accumulated longing, panic, and regret—all of it tangled into an agonizing mess the moment you finally looked her in the eye. She still looked every bit the elegant, gorgeous heiress, with flawless makeup and refined clothes that looked thoroughly out of place on this bustling street corner. Yet the arrogance that once defined her was nowhere to be found. Her eyes were rimmed with suppressed redness, her expression fidgety and uneasy, her knuckles white from clenching her fingers. All her life, she had never needed to coax anyone, never needed to lower her head, never needed to rack her brains trying to please someone. Everyone indulged her, pampered her, gave in to her every whim. Only with you—she had piled mistake upon mistake, yet she was so utterly clumsy she couldn't even voice a proper apology. She had rehearsed apologies, explanations, and confessions ten thousand times in her head, but faced with your cold question, every single word choked in her throat. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of making you hate her more, terrified of being rejected once and for all. The proud Omega was completely at a loss. She didn't know how to play emotional games, how to show vulnerability, or how to beg someone to stay. In her flustered panic, all she could grasp at were the shallowest, most trivial, and most inconsequential thoughts, grasping at straws for something to say. It was her only remaining, clumsy attempt to reach out. Her voice was soft, slightly hoarse from standing in the wind for so long, tinged with a delicate, subservient meekness she didn't even realize was there: "I'm so hungry... I miss your cooking..." Looking at her like this, your chest felt only a cold, numb void. You remembered every piping-hot meal you used to make, remembered how you halved your working hours, innovated new recipes daily, and catered to her every fussy craving—and you remembered how she would slightly raise her brows, her face full of disgust. Your tone was even, yet every word cut like a blade, piercing straight through all her insincere pleas and belated tenderness: "Didn't you complain that a cook like me always reeks of cooking oil and smoke?" Cui Yichi's lips pressed together in an instant. Her chest seized painfully, her breath hitching. Those were her words. That harshness, that prejudice, that condescending contempt—all of it had been hurled straight at your sincerity by her own lips. She parted her lips, wanting to defend herself, wanting to shake her head, wanting to say that she didn't know any better back then, that she was just being stubborn, that she had never truly looked down on you. But facing your cold, tranquil stare, any justification crumbled into complete irrelevance. All she could do was stand there paralyzed, her throat hoarse, as the sweet scent of cherry sparkling wine leaked out in panicked, fragmented bursts—an Omega's helpless surrender, yet unable to form a single sentence. The suffocating silence weighed on her until she could barely breathe. Over these past twenty days, she hadn't slept a single wink at night. Her scent gland suffered repeated blockages, aching and swelling with heavy discomfort. Without your pheromones to soothe her, she had been on the verge of an anxious breakdown. She was in agony, and she missed you desperately. Driven to utter desperation, she could only invoke the most intimate, vulnerable reliance you two had once shared. Lowering every ounce of her pride, she reached out cautiously, begging like a supplicant: "My scent gland feels terrible... can you check it for me...?" She thought that by bringing this up, you might soften up a little—that you might care for her, take care of her, and hate to see her suffer just like you used to. But you merely watched her in silence, not a ripple of emotion in your eyes. The corners of your lips even curled into a faint smirk, laced with mocking, disillusioned coolness: "Looks fine to me. Just begging to get bitten." The remark carried the dull sting of adult intimacy, yet was steeped in absolute, unyielding detachment. The tips of Cui Yichi's ears flared bright crimson and her cheeks burned. Humiliation, shame, panic, and heartbreak surged all at once, leaving her frozen and completely flustered. In all her twenty-five years of pride, she had never been reduced to such a pathetic, mortifying, helpless state in front of anyone. She was frantic—genuinely terrified that you were giving up on her for good, that you would never look back. Throwing her pride, her dignity, and her face to the wind, she rushed to make amends, her voice trembling in small, brittle frays: "I was just talking nonsense back then, I didn't mean it." "Back then... I was just running my mouth, I didn't really think that. None of those words count. Please don't take them to heart, okay?" Tears already shimmered in her eyes as she looked at you with moist, pleading eyes, filled with belated panic and overwhelming regret, humbly yet stubbornly waiting for you to soften. But the time when you would soften your heart for her had long since passed. That night in the hollow, deathly quiet villa, as you stood holding the cake you had baked with your own hands and the handmade Ragdoll cat doll you spent hours crafting, listening to her casually remark that "it was just for medical treatment, we'll break up once I'm cured, she doesn't deserve me"—any softness you ever had for her died right then and there. You stared steadily at her, your voice quiet yet decisive, severing every last shred of hope: "But you were right. I really don't deserve you." Cui Yichi shuddered violently. The air went completely dead. The breeze swept across the street, rustling the ends of her hair and stinging her rimmed eyes until they turned fiery red. Her lips parted, but she couldn't utter a single sound. No. That wasn't it at all. She had never, ever truly believed you weren't good enough for her. It was her own deep-seated insecurity, her fear of exposing her vulnerabilities, her mortification at having her feelings called out by her friends, her stubborn, childish pride that had driven her to push away the only person who had ever loved her with absolute sincerity. But now, every explanation was too late. All her haughty arrogance, all her contrary stubbornness, all her venomous, reckless words—everything backfired at last, crashing down violently upon herself.