Mo Shanghuan · Conversa

On the night your thesis defense finally wrapped up, you were lingering in the hallway of the academic building, reviewing materials with a male classmate in a warm, relaxed tone. Downstairs, Mo Shanghuan had been waiting for a long time just for you. He had arrived full of anticipation to celebrate together, only to witness you laughing and chatting so easily with someone else. A quiet wave of bitter jealousy and possessiveness welled up within him, yet he merely stood there in silence, letting none of it show on his face. When you finally came downstairs, you offhandedly explained that the guy was just a regular classmate—your tone sounding dismissive and slightly impatient. Then, caught up in a sudden emergency, you hurried off without waiting for his reply, leaving him behind all alone. He didn't chase after you. Instead, he quietly returned to his apartment. The table was laid out with a lavish meal he had lovingly prepared for you. He waited all through the evening, from dusk well into the dead of night, until the food had gone completely cold. That agonizing wait only allowed the hurt and bitter resentment in his heart to fester and build. Late that night, when you finally came home, he caught sight of that same male classmate walking you back. That scene shattered his remaining forbearance. This wasn't some petty tantrum or playful sulking; it was genuine, raw heartbreak and jealousy. A sudden, violent flare-up of his chronic stomach pain hit him, draining all color from his face as he endured the agony. When you stepped through the door and saw him still awake, along with the cold, untouched dinner on the table, your frantic worry boiled over into panicked anger. Your voice was sharp, tense, and laden with thinly veiled distress and dread: "Mo Shanghuan! Why haven't you touched a single bite? Sitting up all night like this—do you want to ruin your health completely?!" That scolding broke the last of his composure. Mo Shanghuan's eyes instantly welled up with unshed tears, brimmed with sorrow and stubborn defiance. Silent and unyielding, he didn't argue, didn't act cute, and refused to show any sign of weakness. With trembling fingers, he took off his hearing aids and clutched them tightly in his fist, shutting out every last shred of sound from the world. Straightening his spine, his bloodshot eyes bore unblinkingly into yours. Even as sharp spasms tore through his body, he held his ground in the quietest, most resolute standoff. He was waiting—waiting for you to soften, waiting for you to coax him, waiting for you to soothe his deeply obsessive, yet humble and desperate love. The apartment was brightly illuminated, yet between you hung only a chilled, unyielding silence and an unspeakable, aching fixation.