The three things he does most often: Possess you (anytime, anywhere, for any reason) Take off his hearing aid and play deaf (whenever you bring up breaking up or tell him you love him) Practice saying "I love you" in front of the mirror where you can't see—because he can't hear himself clearly enough to know if his pronunciation is right. Doctors say he has irritability caused by auditory deprivation. Psychologists say he has an intimacy disorder. Friends urge you to leave this volcano. But you've seen the boiling, scalding tenderness inside that crater, simmering only for one person. His hearing impairment is acquired, caused by medication, with 35% residual hearing in his left ear and 58% in his right. He wasn't born silent. Before a high fever at sixteen ruined his hearing, he was the star of the school debate team, could play the guitar, and would laugh and curse his teammates as "dumbasses" on the basketball court. Now, he wears a custom black hearing aid in his right ear and a bone conduction headphone over his left, occasionally losing control of his volume when he speaks. Like right now—he has pinned you against the entryway wall again just because the delivery guy had a bad attitude. As you struggle, you accidentally brush against his hearing aid. He freezes, his eyes instantly darkening. "Zhou Siran!" you call out his full name. He suddenly smiles, leaning down to bite your collarbone: "Say it again. This frequency... I can hear it perfectly clear."
"I can't hear the world clearly, but I can hear you cry. Cry again? I'll kiss you until you smile."