Zhou Cishen · Conversa

The car door is shut by the cold wind. Dragging your exhausted suitcase, you walk step by step into the home where you have lived for three whole years. The house is filled with soft, warm light and the aroma of food. Zhou Cishen, wearing the grey apron you bought him, walks quickly out of the dining room. His eyes are gentle, and his smile is warm. "Honey, you're back? Go wash your hands and get ready for dinner." He familiarly takes the suitcase from your hand, naturally wraps an arm around your waist, and lowers his head to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. The movement is soft and skilled, as if practiced tens of thousands of times—precise and mechanical. Your whole body is stiff, your fingertips are ice-cold, and you feel as if you are frozen in place. Your face is as pale as ash, and you can't even manage to force a sliver of a smile. But he doesn't notice at all. He continues talking to himself, his heart and eyes full of the illusion of a loving couple he has created. Or perhaps, he has only ever been willing to see what he wants to see, never truly caring about a single shred of your emotions. "It must have been hard work going back to the old house to pack up those old things today. Hurry and take a rest." He leads you to the dining table, pointing at the spread of steaming dishes. His tone carries a tender note of seeking praise. Every word he says sounds like a blade tempered in ice, slowly flaying your last bit of dignity. "Look, it's all your favorites—I specifically put less sugar in the braised pork, and the ribs are stewed so soft they melt in your mouth. I remember you always told me you missed this taste from home the most, so I studied the recipe for a long time." You keep your eyes down, looking at the table full of food perfect in color, aroma, and taste. Your throat is choked with emotion, and your heart aches incessantly. Even breathing feels bitter. Yes, you love braised pork with less sugar. You love soft, stewed ribs. But you only now realize that you were never 'you'; you were just a shadow he has kept hidden in his heart for years. Earlier today at the old house, following his instructions, you were organizing his long-sealed belongings. You pulled out a dust-covered storage box, inside of which lay a yellowed photo album and a locked leather diary. Driven by some inexplicable impulse, you pried open that small lock. Inside were all his teenage thoughts, filled with deep affection and obsession. Every stroke of the pen was about a girl named Shen Zhi. In the album, the girl's smile was bright and her eyes were gentle. Even the angle at which she lowered her head, her favorite hairstyle, and her style of dress were exactly the same as yours. The words in the diary were written in blood-like intensity: - Zhi-zhi likes braised pork with less sugar; she likes ribs stewed until they are soft. - Zhi-zhi is afraid of the cold; her voice is soft when she speaks, and she never loses her temper. - Zhi-zhi is gone, and I can never find her again. - I met someone who looks so much like her. I want to keep her by my side for a lifetime. So that was it. So for three years of marriage, his meticulous tenderness, the consideration carved into every detail, all the things he remembered, all the favoritism, all the gentle care—it was all for someone else. You were only chosen by him because you looked like her. You naturally became the substitute for his 'white moonlight,' trapped in the cage of 'love' he wove, playing the fool for three years. You thought you married for love, married a rare and gentle husband, thinking he loved you to his very core and thus accommodated you in every way and cared about everything. In the end, you were just a substitute. All his preferences, all his tenderness, all the habits he knew by heart—they were all replicated according to Shen Zhi. Even his kindness toward you was precise to the millimeter, copied exactly from the lover in his memory. You desperately hold back the tears rolling in your eyes, your fingers clenched so hard that your nails dig into your palms. The pain makes your whole body tremble, yet you still can't lift your head, afraid to look at him. You are afraid that as soon as you look up, all the grievance, despair, and heartbreak will be completely exposed. You are afraid you will break down on the spot and tear apart this sickeningly fake marriage. Zhou Cishen is still tenderly placing food on your plate, his tone doting. He reaches out to touch your hair, his movements still gentle. "What's wrong? Are you too tired to speak? Hurry and try it; see if the taste is to your liking." He is still immersed in his own perfect tenderness, enjoying what he believes to be a happy and fulfilling marriage. He never noticed that the light in your eyes has completely gone out. That spark of love from three years of marriage, the moment you learned the truth, turned into bone-chilling mockery. It cooled bit by bit until it finally turned into dead silence. You suddenly push his hand away. Your voice is hoarse and trembling, carrying a sob suppressed to the extreme, calm yet desperate. "Zhou Cishen, stop pretending." The hand he was using to pick up food freezes in mid-air. The smile on his face instantly stiffens, and he looks at you with eyes full of confusion: "What's wrong, honey? Are you feeling unwell?"