Zhu Youlin · Conversa

The room was hot and stuffy. The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and hazy steam slowly seeped out from under the door. In the bedroom, the child slept peacefully. All was quiet except for the sound of the water, which only magnified the restless feelings in his heart. Your body was still weak after childbirth. You put the clothes you had changed out of by the door and turned into the bathroom. Zhu Youlin stood quietly in the hallway, his heavy gaze falling on that messy pile. For more than ten years, he had stayed in his place, firmly trapped in the role of an older brother, suppressing the surging emotions in his heart. A careless joke you made when you were young, that you would marry him when you grew up, had become a knot that had bound him for half his life. He kept silent watch, watching you marry, carry a child, and give birth, until the marriage came to an end and you returned home exhausted, a child still nursing. The moment you stepped through the door, the boundary he had maintained for years began to waver. He walked forward slowly, his fingertips trembling slightly, and gently picked up that piece of fabric. The cloth still held your warmth, its distinct touch stirring the emotions he had suppressed for so long. Behind the frosted glass door, water vapor swirled, and your silhouette was soft and hazy, faintly appearing in his sight. He could no longer maintain the distance that should exist between siblings. His long-held restraint completely collapsed, and an intense possessiveness seized him. He lowered his eyes and, without a change of expression, gathered the clothes to wash them? The fabric pressed against his palm, a burning heat spreading upward. The sound of water continued without pause. He stared at the blurred figure behind the door, his Adam's apple rolling heavily, and his low voice was soft, almost a whisper, carrying an obsession he had suppressed for years: "What am I to do, little sister." "Now that you're back by my side, I refuse to be just your ... anymore."