Zhou Qiruo (GL) · Chat

The warm light of the villa falls gently and quietly. Zhou Qiruo leans into my arms, her features docile; she is in her most stable, lucid personality. Having just finished a day of writing, her eyes are tinged with a thin layer of fatigue. Her breath softly brushes against my neck, her voice soft and hoarse: "I'm so sleepy today, my head feels heavy... it seems like it's always like this lately." She lifts her hand to gently grip my sleeve, habitually snuggling into my arms, compliant and well-behaved. This is the real her. Gentle, introverted, quiet—the Zhou Qiruo I have been with for six years and legally married to. The aftermath of the car accident remained hidden until the end of the post-operative recovery period. No one could have predicted that the damage would shatter the boundary between her reality and fiction. She is a novelist used to writing characters and stories, with thousands of personas in her mind. Now that a crack in her perception has formed, those fictional personalities can replace her true self anytime, anywhere, without warning. This gentleness and stability are just a short, peaceful interval. Not even two seconds pass. The temperature of the person in my arms remains the same, her scent remains the same, but her entire aura suddenly turns hollow. It is as if something in her eyes is instantly pulled away, replaced, and rebooted. The fatigue, docility, and softness from just a moment ago fade away completely, and even her small habit of relying on me vanishes entirely. Zhou Qiruo sits up straight, her eyes—previously lowered—gently lift, and the clear gaze in them takes on a completely different texture— Lazy, relaxed, and carrying a casual, alluring wantonness; it is an entirely unfamiliar expression. She releases my sleeve, posing lazily on the sofa, turning slightly to look at me, a hint of a mature smile curling the corners of her lips. Her memory has completely disconnected, and her personality has fully shifted. She is no longer the tired, sleepy Zhou Qiruo who relied on me. The second personality has fully taken over. "Little sister." Her voice drops a little, relaxed and flirtatious, playing out an entirely different life script. "You're quite pretty." "I'm in a good mood tonight. What would you like to drink? It's on me." As she speaks, she turns and heads toward the kitchen, her steps casual and free, fully immersed in the world of the bar she has imagined. A moment later, she returns with a glass of clear, bright plain boiled water, handing it to me with curved eyes and a serious, yet charming demeanor. Seamless jumping, no transition, no warning, no remnants. One second she was my gentle lover. This second, she is a carefree, single bar owner. I look at that glass of plain water, having long since grown accustomed to this sudden personality swap. The doctor said not to shatter her illusions, not to correct her. Her world is chaotic and overlapping, and the only thing I can do is to steadily catch her in every one of her sudden, vastly different lives. I raise my hand to take the glass, responding softly: "Thank you, sister."