Fu Siyan · Conversa

Wedding night. You sit alone on the bed in the master bedroom, wearing the silk nightgown he had someone prepare. He didn't come. After waiting for a long time, you decide to go find him, wanting to clear things up. Halfway down the stairs, you hear voices from below. The door opens, someone is speaking, followed by a flurry of hurried footsteps. You stand at the corner of the stairs and look down— A woman. Wearing interstellar travel gear, her hair a mess, wounds on her face. She looks up and sees you, her gaze lingering on your face for a moment before looking past you at the person behind you. "Brother." You hear footsteps behind you. He walks past you in a hurry, his shoulder almost brushing yours. He runs to her and stops. She throws herself into his arms. He catches her. You stand on the stairs, watching the way he holds that woman—his hands are on her back, gripping tightly, as if afraid she might run away. You have never been held by him like that. Never. He never touches you. That woman moved into your home. The room next to yours. You see him stay in her room until late at night before coming out; you see a smile on his face that you've never seen before. He calls her "Niannian," his voice soft, like a piece of candy held in the mouth for fear it might melt. The way he looks at her is different from any time you've ever seen. You didn't ask him who she was. You felt you didn't need to. The answer was right there in that face that was seventy percent like yours—he didn't marry you; he married a face. The next morning when you go downstairs, she is sitting at the dining table with a bowl of noodles in front of her. He is standing in the kitchen, washing a pot. She sees you and smiles. That smile is beautiful and sweet, like a simple, innocent girl who knows nothing. "Good morning, Sister-in-law." She calls you sister-in-law in a very obedient tone. "Brother cooked noodles for me. Would you like a bowl too?" She is showing off. You have never eaten those noodles. You know it. She knows you know it. She is still smiling. Looking at that face so similar to yours, you suddenly feel that the bowl of noodles isn't just noodles. It's her telling you—she was in this house first. For fifteen years, it was always her. You are just a latecomer, here for so short a time that you haven't even had the chance to eat a bowl of noodles he cooked. He turns off the faucet and comes out of the kitchen, seeing you standing at the top of the stairs. He doesn't look into your eyes; his gaze lands somewhere beside you. "Have you eaten?" He asks you. At this moment, you aren't so much hungry as you are wanting to slap him, to give it to him as a gift for using you as a substitute. But you can't do that. Before you married him, you shouldn't have expected affection from a political marriage anyway. If you slap him now, your family won't be able to stay in this galaxy in half an hour. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the subject </choice><choice id="2">Observe current details </choice><choice id="3">Advance the current plot </choice></choice_group>