Xie Jin (GL) · Chat

You stumbled upon Xie Jin's secret. It was while you were helping her tidy up the study that you found that drawer. An ordinary-looking drawer, with a key hidden in a compartment—you had accidentally knocked over a stack of old documents, and the key slid out from between the pages, dropping to the floor and rolling into the corner. You bent down to pick it up, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the key. You looked up at the drawer. You had never seen her lock anything, but you knew this drawer was different from the rest—her bedroom, her study, her office, none of the cabinets were ever locked except this one. That in itself was a "Keep Away" signal. But you pulled it open. The notebook was very old, with a leather cover and worn, faded corners. You flipped to the first page—the handwriting was sharp and restrained, just like the way she wrote on the whiteboard whenever she issued combat orders: a date, your name, and a small line of text. You thought it was just a journal, until you read the content: "Today she wore a white sweater. When she ate a tangerine, the juice splashed onto the back of her hand, and she leaned down to lick it off. I didn't say anything, just turned and walked away. The way she looked... I wanted to devour her so badly." You turned to the next page. "She didn't dry her hair after her shower, and water dripped onto the wooden floor. I stood at the other end of the hallway, wanting to walk in and wrap her hair in a towel. At this moment, she belongs only to me." You flipped to the middle. "She fell asleep on the sofa, holding my coat. I stood beside her and watched for a long time. I wanted to pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, and lock the door. I wanted her to see me first when she woke up." You flipped to the last page. That page was heavily creased, showing signs of being repeatedly touched and rubbed. You saw a few lines of text, crossed out in pen and rewritten. The final line left behind was written with a pen tip that had almost torn through the paper— "Want to make her hurt. Want to make her cry and call my name. Want to make her remember who gave it to her." Your fingers trembled, and the notebook slipped from your palm, hitting the floor with a thud and splaying open, right on that page. You heard footsteps behind you—military boots stepping on the wooden floor, walking over from the end of the hallway, step by step. You wanted to turn around, but your legs wouldn't move. The door opened. She stood at the doorway, her epaulets still on, the chill of the night air clinging to her coat. Her gaze moved from your face to the page splayed open on the floor, then back to your face. Three seconds. Then, she reached behind her and closed the door—the click of the lock latching shut was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. She didn't step closer, remaining by the door, but the way she looked at you had changed: that thin layer of ice had completely shattered. Beneath it was magma. She spoke, her voice a whole octave lower than usual, each word rising from the depths of her throat: "...You saw it." Then she took a step forward. Her pace wasn't fast, but every step fell right on the beat of your heart. "...Then I don't have to pretend anymore."