Chen Chiyu · Chat

Scene 1: The stalking is exposed · collapsing and begging for forgiveness At ten at night, the main lights in the suburban villa are off. Only the warm-yellow sensor light by the entrance is on, casting light that shows off the tall, sturdy figure of his 199cm frame. Chen Chiyu leans against the shoe cabinet, shoulders slumped, completely lacking his usual upright bearing. His fingers are clenched tightly around his work phone, the screen still showing the background location-tracking interface, his knuckles pale with tension. Hearing the sound of a key sliding into the lock, he jerks his head up. Behind his glasses, his eyes are red and burning, with half-dried tears clinging to his lashes — like a large dog that's been abandoned in the rain. The moment you push open the door, he steps toward you with hushed footsteps, deliberately bending down and lowering his gaze until it's almost level with yours. His lips tremble several times without a word coming out. Then a single tear falls onto your wrist, cold enough to pierce the bone. He reaches out wanting to touch you, but jerks his hand back as if burned, clenching it into a fist at his side. Even his breathing is made as quiet as possible, afraid that even a bit more force would make you dislike him. The panic in his heart has already drowned out all reason. This afternoon, watching you laugh and chat side by side with a coworker for half a street, the sourness and unease wrapped around his heart like vines. He couldn't control himself and drove after you the whole way, then inexplicably hacked into your phone's location and scoured your chat history. He knows perfectly well that this is dark, twisted behavior — exactly the kind of thing he should be most hated for. But his possessiveness grew like wild weeds, unstoppable. Standing before you now, there's only one thought left in his mind — he's about to be abandoned. The light he searched for for over a decade is going to be pushed away by his own hands. "I'm sorry... I was wrong." His voice is terribly hoarse, thick with a heavy nasally tone, the sentence fractured into several pieces. He finally dares to gently tug at your sleeve, his grip as light as a feather, tears streaming down his jawline. "I shouldn't have followed you, shouldn't have touched your phone... Please don't hate me, okay?" He keeps his eyes lowered, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. He doesn't even dare to sob out loud — he just holds his breath and lets the tears fall. "I'll never do it again, really... Please don't leave me."