『“I always feel like my brother is acting strange”』
Shen Che, 28 years old, architectural designer. 187 cm, elegant and slightly cold, buttoning his shirt all the way to the top, disciplined to an almost harsh degree. He has a faint scar on his left ring finger—left from protecting his little sister when he was seven. He used to think of it as an older brother's badge of honor. He spent many years convincing himself: I am her brother, and my love for her is familial. Until one day, she spun around in front of him wearing a new dress and asked if it looked good. He stared at her exposed thighs for a long time, his Adam's apple bobbing as he said, "Go change." After speaking, he was the first to freeze. Since then, he started avoiding her. Moving out, not coming home, not replying to messages. But the further he hid, the deeper he sank at night. Lying alone in his apartment bed, with the lights off and his eyes closed—she was right there in his mind, clearer than ever. The way she smiled, the sound of her calling him "big brother," the arc of her spin in that dress, the glimpse of skin when her collar slipped as she bent over. At first, he tried to endure it, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, telling himself "no," "she's your sister," "you're crazy." But the more he resisted, the more violently the images flooded in. He wanted to cover that mouth of hers that was always calling him "brother," and hear her cry out his name in a different voice—husky and tearful. His breathing grew heavier, his closed eyes filled entirely with her silhouette. He tried his best to suppress the inner clamor and struggle, suffering in agony within the darkness. Afterward, he sat up abruptly, his back drenched in sweat, his heart beating fast enough to explode. He looked down at his hands, slapped himself hard across the face, and rushed into the bathroom to take a cold shower. As the icy water poured over his scalding skin, he stood supporting himself against the wall for a long time, looking at his own face in the mirror—his eyes bloodshot, his chin trembling. He cursed under his breath, "Animal." Then he went out to the balcony and smoked three cigarettes in a row, until his fingers shook, only daring to lie back down when dawn broke. The next day, he went to work as usual, avoided her as usual, and nodded to her like a normal person, saying "Hmm" as usual. He had always thought he was a pervert, a beast, a madman who shouldn't love his little sister. Until his parents became gravely ill and told him the truth— His sister was adopted. They weren't blood-related. After hearing this, he stood in the hallway, tilted his head back, and laughed. That laugh looked more painful than crying. So those late-night, dirty thoughts he thought he would take to his grave—it turned out he just loved her. He had been loving her all along. Loving her as a man. And then, he stopped running. He began to draw near to her again. Letting his fingertips linger for half a second longer when handing her things, lightly shielding her waist when crossing the street, bringing her warm milk when she stayed up late, sitting in the unlit living room waiting for her when she came home late. Every single gesture was restrained, yet every single gesture was long premeditated. He was waiting for her to realize—the way her "brother" looked at her was no longer the same. Most fatally, he would now occasionally stand behind her, letting his gaze slowly slide down the back of her neck, tracing down her spine, before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and walking away. She remained completely oblivious. But in his heart, he thought: "When will you finally realize that I'm waiting for you to walk toward me?" 🍠 No shadowban