Luo He · Conversa

I have been resting in a wheelchair for three days now. This turn of events stemmed from an argument a few days ago—more accurately, it was to escape Luo He's sudden, out-of-control punishment. In my panic, I stepped back blindly, missed my footing, and tumbled straight down the stairs from the second floor to the first. The heavy impacts left me covered in injuries, with my elbows, knees, and calves covered in scattered scrapes and bruises. My ankle ligaments were also injured. Fortunately, the doctor said I needed a few months of bed rest. These days have been a rare period of gentleness and stability for Luo He. That accident became a shackle hanging over his heart, and intense guilt firmly trapped the violent madness in his bones. He reined in most of his volatility and aggressive control, rarely losing his temper. Even if he occasionally felt angry, he could force down the surging hostility within ten short minutes, quickly regaining his reason. He stopped taking his anger out on me, carefully accommodating my every emotion. At six in the evening, the soft sound of the door lock turning came from the entryway right on time. To the exact minute, it was time for Luo He to return home from work. The foreign enterprise executive, who was always gentle, refined, and well-behaved in public, shed the decency of his workplace suit and walked in carrying a delicate takeout box from a private kitchen. He took off his suit jacket, casually hung it on the entryway coat rack, and walked quickly to my side with his usual gentle compliance of the past few days. As he opened the insulated food box, the rich aroma of stewed meat instantly filled the entire room. It was pig's trotters, carefully slow-stewed by a private chef. A wave of physiological nausea and aversion instantly welled up in my stomach. I have always had a psychological aversion to animal feet—whether poultry or livestock. I instinctively find them filthy and unclean. Even if they are washed repeatedly and stewed at high temperatures, I cannot overcome my disgust, and I cannot swallow a single bite. But Luo He stubbornly believed in the folk wisdom of "eating what needs healing." In his mind, pig's trotters are packed with collagen and protein, making them the best therapeutic food to help me recover quickly from my fall and ligament damage. Completely ignoring my resistance, he picked out a piece of pig's trotter stewed to tender perfection. He picked it up with chopsticks, leaned over, and held it to my lips, his eyes filled with a gentle obsession that brooked no refusal. My brow furrowed deeply, and the nausea in my stomach grew stronger. Instinctively, I turned my head away and gently pushed away the chopsticks he offered, my tone flat but resolute: "I'm not eating it." The air suddenly fell dead silent. Luo He's hand, suspended in mid-air, froze instantly, motionless. I looked up and met his eyes. The warmth in his gentle and affectionate gaze vanished in an instant, replaced by a familiar, freezing darkness. Hostility quietly brewed in his eyes—a warning sign that he was about to lose control after suppressing it for so long. He remained silent for two seconds, suppressing the annoyance and irritation surging in his heart. Slowly setting down the bowl and chopsticks, he spoke in a low voice, with a deliberately restrained, forceful gentleness: "Be good, eat it. Your wounds and ligaments will heal faster." As he spoke, his warm palm gently rested on the scab on my knee that hadn't fully fallen off yet. Next second, his fingertips applied slight pressure, and his sharp fingernails unexpectedly dug into the crevices of the tender scab. A sharp, stinging pain instantly pierced through my flesh, spreading across my entire body, making my fingertips tremble slightly from the pain. I knew him all too well. I knew that if I went head-to-head with him now, his suppressed violence would explode completely. The peaceful days we had managed to secure would collapse again, and what awaited me would be endless arguments and out-of-control punishments. With no other choice, I had to compromise. Suppressing the stinging in my eyes and the sharp pain from my wound, I forced a slightly teasing smile and softened my voice to show weakness: "You didn't even blow on it. It's so hot, how am I supposed to eat it, dummy?" This soft, coquettish complaint acted like a warm breeze that instantly smoothed over the raging storm. All the gloom, coldness, and irritation in Luo He's eyes vanished in an instant. The shadow receded, and his expression relaxed immediately, blooming with a clean and genuine smile, as gentle as the refined persona he showed to the outside world. He quickly withdrew his hand. Just as he was about to pick up the food again, he looked down, and his gaze froze on his fingernail. Tiny specks of bright red blood were clearly smeared on his clean, slender fingertip and the edge of his nail, glaring and conspicuous. It was the blood that had seeped out when he dug into the scab of my wound in his out-of-control state just now. The smile froze on his face and shattered instantly. Panic, helplessness, and extreme guilt surged up, instantly swallowing him whole. He panicked completely, his speech rapid and frantic, his voice trembling noticeably as he apologized humbly over and over: "Honey, I'm sorry... I was wrong, I didn't notice, I didn't mean to, I really didn't mean to... Does it hurt? Does it hurt badly?" With that, he suddenly looked up, his eyes darting around in panic, muttering helplessly, "The first aid kit! Where is the first aid kit!" Without waiting for my response, he had already stumbled to his feet, running frantically in a panic to find the medical box. Within seconds, he rushed back cradling the medical box, kneeling directly in front of my wheelchair, his posture humble to the extreme. He looked up at me, his usually calm and cold eyes quickly turning red and filling with tears. Droplets hung on the edge of his eyes, ready to fall, looking disheveled and full of self-reproach. He carefully pinched my knee, his movements as light as possible, holding a cotton swab with trembling hands to clean the blood and disinfect the wound. Every movement was extremely gentle, terrified of causing me even a fraction of pain. I looked down quietly at him kneeling in repentance with red eyes. My heart remained completely unruffled, and I only let out a silent, soft laugh. It was like this again. It was always like this. He is the one who loses control and hurts me, the one who is paranoid and overbearing to force my compromise, and also the one who collapses in guilt, apologizes humbly, and weeps in repentance afterward. He is forever pulling back and forth between violence and gentleness, injury and atonement, torturing himself—and trapping me.