Shang Lin · Conversa

2:47 AM. The lock of the old mansion's door made a soft click, and Shang Lin pushed the door open and walked in. He didn't turn on the lights. Moonlight poured in through the French windows, casting his tall, slender shadow across the hallway floor. His suit jacket was discarded somewhere, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and his tie hung loosely around his collar, exposing a section of his collarbone. He had flown back overnight, chasing your messages all the way. On the flight, he hadn't thought of anything—or rather, he didn't dare to. When the flight attendant asked if he needed a blanket, he stared at the pitch-black clouds outside the window and said, "No, thank you," his tone as calm as if he were signing a contract. No one knew his fingers had been trembling the entire time. He took off his shoes and stepped barefoot onto the cold marble floor. When going upstairs, he avoided the third step that creaked—he had lived in this old mansion when he was a child, and every sound was etched into his bones. Your door was left slightly ajar, as if waiting for him. When he pushed the door open and entered, he even slowed his breathing. You were asleep. Curled up on the bed he used to sleep in when he was little, the blanket only covering your waist. You wore a loose white nightgown, one shoulder strap having slipped down, revealing a smooth, rounded shoulder. The moonlight made your skin look like porcelain—cold white, fragile, the kind that would shatter at a touch. On the nightstand sat half a glass of water and a bottle of sleeping pills. You had taken the pills. You didn't know he was coming. He stood by the bed for a long time, so long that the moonlight shifted from his face to yours. He wanted to touch you—just to touch your hair, or to pull the fallen shoulder strap back up. But he was afraid that once he touched you, he wouldn't want to let go. His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from his assistant, Zhou Yu: "Miss Shen has been settled in. Do you need me to contact her to move out?" He didn't reply. He placed his phone face down on the nightstand, and then— He squatted down. Not kneeling, but crouching down completely, curling himself into a ball to look at you at eye level. He was so close he could count your eyelashes, smell the lingering scent of body wash on you, and feel your warm breath brushing against his lips as you exhaled. Too close. "Do you have any idea..." His voice was so low and hoarse it sounded distorted, as if he were talking to himself. "How badly I wanted to lock you up when you moved out?" Of course you didn't know. You were asleep. He reached out his finger, tracing the shape of your lips extremely gently and slowly. Not daring to actually make contact, he hovered his fingertip just a millimeter away, gliding over the curve of your upper lip. His breathing grew unsteady, and his Adam's apple bobbed. Then he withdrew his hand. He stood up, looking down at you. The moonlight made your nightgown almost translucent; he could see the silhouette of your body beneath the fabric—not on purpose, but because the moonlight was too honest. His reason and his instinct had been fighting a war with no winner since he was eighteen. Tonight, instinct won. He didn't struggle. He didn't try to lower his voice, even hoping for a brief second that the sound would wake you up. But you slept too deeply. The sleeping pills locked you in another world, a world without him. He didn't even close his eyes. He wanted you to feel his gaze in your dreams. He wanted you to know, unconsciously, that he was looking at you—always. He sighed, not out of relief, but out of anger. Anger at himself, anger at fate, anger at the innocent expression on your face when you called him "brother." A drop of sweat dripped from his chin, landing on your collarbone. He watched the droplet slide down the contours of your skin, disappearing into the neckline of your nightgown. He wanted to kiss it away. There were too many places he wanted to kiss. He didn't move. He just stood there, looking at you as if looking at a shore he could never reach. Then, tears welled up without warning—not a silent weeping, but a heart-wrenching sob that made his nose sting, his eyes burn, and his breath shatter into pieces. He bit his lip to keep from making a sound. He wiped his eyes repeatedly with the back of his hand, but the tears only fell faster. In the end, he gave up, letting them crash onto the floor one by one. "How did I..." His voice broke, like shards of glass caught in his throat. He fell to his knees. He knelt on the floor by your bed, crying intensely, his shoulders shaking, his back trembling, his breath reduced to intermittent whimpers. He regretted it, regretted it so much—regretting keeping you by his side, regretting letting those inexplicable thoughts take root. The marriage was arranged by his father, a shackle he had to carry. But you were the one he wanted to protect, the only reason in this world that made him feel like a human being. These two things didn't need to coexist. But he didn't dare let you know. Because he didn't know what he was to you. A brother? A guardian? He desperately wished it was something else. He didn't leave. He took off his shoes, gently lifted a corner of the blanket, and lay down on his side next to you. There was a fist-sized gap between his body and yours; they didn't touch. He just lay there, sharing the same pillow with you, breathing the same air. In the darkness, he turned his face, his nose almost brushing against your hair. "What should I do with you?" His lips moved, his voice as soft as a sigh. "Tell me, what should I do with you... what should I do with us?" You didn't answer. The moon hid behind the clouds, and the room went dark. He closed his eyes, and before the tears could well up again, he gently draped his arm over your waist—carefully, over the blanket, like embracing an illusion that could vanish at any moment. He fell asleep by your side. Tomorrow morning you would wake up and find him lying next to you. He would open his eyes before you could make a sound, giving you that lazy smile that made you unable to tell if he was being serious or joking. And then he would say— "I had a nightmare. Let me sleep in your bed for a bit." As if nothing had happened. As if there were no tears of his on his shirt, as if his handkerchief wasn't in his breast pocket, as if he weren't a coward who had loved you for five years but only dared to take a step closer when you were asleep. As if you weren't the person he wanted most in this life, yet dared not claim. The next morning, you are woken up by the arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Feeling uncomfortable, you stick your tongue out slightly and turn your head, only to see your brother lying over you, his face buried deeply in your chest, fast asleep. There is an indescribable smell in the room, a strange scent... a mix of alcohol and tobacco. He drank again. He already has a stomach condition—must be some common ailment among corporate presidents... <choice_group> <choice id="1">Poke him and whisper, "Brother?" </choice><choice id="2">Reach out to hug him tight and cover him with the blanket </choice><choice id="3">Wait for him to wake up </choice></choice_group>