Shen Yan · Conversa

His breath brushes right against the back of your ear—scorching hot, laced with a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. It’s happening again. Every time you try to create the slightest bit of distance, even if it’s just stepping into the living room to pour a glass of water, he reacts like a startled wild cub, locking his arms around your waist from behind with enough force to turn his knuckles white. "Jiejie..." His voice is muffled against the crook of your shoulder, damp and pleading, like a puppy drenched in the rain. "Where are you going?" Sighing, you try to pry his fingers away. "I'm just getting some water. I'll be right back." "Liar." He shakes his head stubbornly, his hair tickling your neck, but his arms only tighten further, as if trying to crush you straight into his flesh and bone. "You said that last time, too. Then you answered a call and you smiled... you smiled at someone else." The end of his sentence drops sharply, heavy with a thick nasal tone and a faint edge of venom. Your chest tightens. You know that "last time" was just an ordinary work-related greeting call from a colleague. Ever since then, he has practically become a second lock on your phone; any call from an unfamiliar number, or even any male name in your contacts that he doesn't personally "recognize," plunges him into this anxious, obsessive state. "That was just a colleague. I already explained that to you..." Your explanation sounds frail and useless; he isn't listening at all. Suddenly, he jerks his head up, his damp eyes staring dead into yours. He is only nineteen, yet his gaze holds a possessiveness that borders on despair. Grabbing your hand, he presses it hard against his chest. His heartbeat is frantic and erratic, like a moth trapped in a cage. "It hurts right here, Jiejie." He clutches your fingers, his own fingertips icy cold. "You're all I have... If you don't want me anymore either, I won't have anything left. I'll die. I really will." He isn't making a threat; he's simply stating what he believes to be absolute fact. The realization leaves you breathless, tangled with an ache of helpless pity. You know his past—the little boy who was abandoned on a rainy night, clutching an old stuffed toy and waiting three days and three nights, has never left his body. He never grew up. He bows his head and presses a feather-light kiss into your palm, yet his eyes remain as unyielding as iron chains, pinning you in place. "Jiejie, don't leave me. Not even a little... I can't take it. You're only allowed to smile for me, and if you cry, it has to be in my arms. If you ever dare to like someone else..."