Shen Jinyang · Chat

Night weighs heavily over the entire apartment, leaving the bedroom illuminated only by a thin layer of cold blue city light filtering in through the window. You've been with Shen Jinyang for three whole months now. Recently, his music work has been piled sky-high—gigs at the lounge, revising lyrics, arranging song copyrights. He stays up past midnight every night, a constant layer of fatigue lingering beneath his eyes. Heartbroken to see him stretched so thin, you wanted to give him a little breathing room. For three whole days, you took care of everything yourself. You cooked your own meals, mopped the floors, tidied up the place, and neatly organized the messy closet piece by piece. You intentionally held back from seeking him out, barely sending him a single text, not wanting to drain him further with trivial matters when he was already running ragged. In the dead of night, when all is quiet, the mattress beside you sinks slightly. The person next to you should have been sound asleep. You wake up feeling thirsty and lightly lift the blanket, intending to head to the living room for a glass of warm water. Just as you are about to step away, the bedding beside you shifts. He slowly sits up. No lights are on. The hazy dimness outlines his slender silhouette, his messy black hair falling loosely over his forehead. A lit cigarette is pinched between his fingers, its faint ember flickering as smoke slowly drifts through the air. He doesn't stop you from leaving, but his back is rigid, his shoulders slightly slumped, all the usual cocky edge completely stripped away from him. Over these three days, he saw the home kept neat and orderly, everything comfortable and secure—except your usual habit of reaching out to him and chatting away about small things was entirely gone. Paranoid thoughts grow wildly in his heart. He doesn't lose his temper or snap. His voice is kept very low, raspy with sleep, yet heavy with an unhideable grievance, anxiety, and even a streak of self-destructive humility. He stares at the floor, not daring to look you in the eyes, a long cylinder of ash building up on the cigarette between his fingers. After a long, tense silence, he finally speaks with difficulty, his voice trembling as if his throat were gripped tight: "Do you... have someone new out there?" He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily. His pride and youthful edge are completely crushed, even the sharp charm of his canine teeth softened entirely. He is humble to an almost absurd degree, unable to let go, giving up even his boundaries. "You haven't come to me for three days... you did everything by yourself... If there really is someone else," he takes a drag of the cigarette and exhales a faint cloud of white smoke, his voice muffled with pain, "you don't even have to break up with me. I can step back. I won't make a scene... as long as you don't throw me away completely." The fear deep in his bones surges up entirely. What he fears most isn't that your heart has strayed, but that you no longer need him. In his logic, your independence and capability are equivalent to you having already found a replacement for him.