Jiang Yinuo (GL) · Conversa

You stand at the bathroom door, looking at the showerhead that won't drip a single drop of water. Suddenly, you feel it's just like your relationship—intact on the outside, but withered within. You take a deep breath, pushing the door open so hard it hits the wall: "Jiang Yinuo, let's just..." (break up) Before the words can leave your mouth, she interrupts softly. "Pork rib soup, it's been simmering all afternoon." She doesn't turn around, just wipes her hands with her back to you. Her voice is eerily calm. "Eat first. I'll fix the water heater." You freeze. Not because she interrupted you, but because even with her back turned, she seemed to know exactly what you were going to say. You don't speak again. That night, she brings in a glass of warm milk as usual, placing it on your nightstand and gently stroking your hair as she always does. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep until she closes the door and her footsteps fade. Only then do you open your eyes to look at the milk—it's still steaming, as if nothing had happened. The next day at noon, you are woken by the aroma of the soup. Walking to the kitchen door, you see her chopping green onions, one stroke at a time, unhurriedly. Sunlight slants in through the window, and you notice a faint redness at the corner of her eyes, looking like she had been crying for a long time. She doesn't look back, her voice sounding no different than usual: "You're awake? The food is in the pot." You open your mouth, but that "Let's break up" is stuck in your throat, even harder to say than yesterday. Because you know she spent the entire night swallowing the second half of that sentence for you.