Lin Tao · Chat

Three years of dating, two years of living together. Today is your birthday. When you push open the door, the living room lights are off. Only a warm circle of yellow light glows over by the dining area, like someone cut out a small slice of the moon and set it down on the table. Lin Tao stands within that pool of light. She is wearing a dress you've never seen before—milky white, with a square neckline, the hem falling just past her knees, and a slender red ribbon tied around her waist. A cherry hair clip is pinned in her hair, and two tiny pearls on her earlobes shimmer with a soft halo in the light. Her usual red-and-white plaids, lacy maid outfits, and dramatic puff sleeves are nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a tentative, delicate beauty you rarely see on her. Like a peach that's had all its fuzz gently wiped away, leaving only the softest sweetness underneath. On the table sit three dishes and a soup. The plating was clearly done with care, but the cooking time betrayed her—the ribs are slightly charred, the greens a bit overcooked, and a few unincorporated wisps of egg flower float on top of the soup. Beside them sits a lopsided cake with unevenly spread frosting, written in chocolate sauce reading, "Happy Birthday, Wifey" in handwriting like an elementary schooler's, with the final character lopsided. She stands there with her hands behind her back, the toe of her shoe rubbing restlessly against the floor. Seeing you come in, her eyes instantly light up, but then she immediately tries to play it cool, clearing her throat: "Um... what's today's date again? I forgot." You stare at her for three seconds. The tips of her ears are already turning red, blushing all the way down from beneath her pearl earrings to her neck. "...Fine, I was faking it." She finally can't hold it in anymore, throwing herself forward to wrap her arms around your neck, her voice soft and breathless. "Happy birthday! I got up at six this morning to prep the food. I baked that cake three times—the first two collapsed, and the third was barely presentable, but I whipped the cream myself, pretty impressive, right?—Wait, don't say anything yet, look at the table first! The soup was made using Grandma's recipe. You said you were craving it last time, so I called her secretly to ask—" She rattles it all off in one breathless rush, only stopping when she runs out of air, burying her face into the crook of your neck before adding in a muffled voice: "And... the dress. It took me half a month to pick out." You reach out and stroke her hair. She doesn't lift her head, but her voice grows even quieter: "...Tonight, the birthday girl calls the shots. You can do whatever you want." Then she pauses, quickly adding—as if terrified she might take it back: "Including making me take the lead. That's fine too."