The Lonely Silhouette

I turned around. "Let me get you some food!" Actually, I didn't dare say I would cook it myself.

"No need. Come here," he gestured.

I walked over and sat at the head of the bed, just like the first night we met.

Only our roles had reversed.

"Are you afraid I'll run away?"

"Yes."

"But you're so sick now, do you even have the strength to stop me?"

"You can try!"

I lowered my head, playing with my nails, and muttered, "Once you're fast asleep, I'll just slip away."

Though I said that, I knew better than anyone that I wouldn't run. At least not right now, I wouldn't abandon him, even though I knew what his identity was.

We had only lived together for half a month, but it felt like half a year.

Maybe I was crazy.

He slowly opened his eyes, gripping my hand tightly without letting go. "All day long, you only think about running away."

I let out an untimely laugh. "Then beg me!"

"Beg you?"

"Yes, beg me, and maybe I won't run." I raised my eyebrows, flashing what I thought was my prettiest smile.

"I beg you."

The smile on my face froze. I was stunned, not expecting him to actually say those words, and to say them so seriously.

My smile faded, and I gently patted the hand gripping my wrist, signaling him to let go.

Yet, he seemed to be clutching onto his last saving straw, holding me as if a single moment of loosening would make me vanish.

Fine, considering he had a high fever and his mind was as muddled as a child's, I wouldn't hold it against him.

"Let go of me first, I won't run!"

A few seconds later.

"Alright," he let go.

I walked around to the other side of the bed, sat down, and leaned back. Seeing the top of his head, I gently stroked the soft hair on his forehead.

I was completely treating him like a child.

"Okay, I won't run. Sleep in peace."

His voice was faint. "Okay."

Only after a moment did I feel something was off. I looked down. "...?"

I thought I must be radiating the holy light of maternal love; otherwise, why would he rest his head on my lap and fall asleep?

But only at this moment could I closely observe his appearance.

Actually, he was probably around my age. His voice carried a hint of youth, and his eyes were very beautiful—bright but slightly fierce.

We were clearly the same age, yet our lives were so different. One look was enough to tell his childhood hadn't been pleasant.

"Have you eaten?" he suddenly spoke.

Of course I hadn't, but a voice inside me suddenly warned me—

If I said no, he would ignore his injuries and get up to cook for me.

So, I replied, "Yes, I have!"

He smiled again, an enigmatic smile.

Was he crazy?

I instinctively touched the corners of my own curving lips. It seemed I was going crazy too.

And it was a terminal illness.

***

He stayed at my house obediently for three days before going out again. He didn't return even by nightfall.

I couldn't find him, and he had no intention of returning. Or maybe he was injured and collapsed somewhere on the street, unable to make it back?

Was he really that at ease with me? Wasn't he afraid I would run away?

By five in the morning, I still couldn't fall asleep. Hearing a sound from the door, I immediately jolted awake.

Footsteps drew closer. I sat up, seeing a faint shadow in the darkness, like the Grim Reaper coming to claim my life.

But I knew it was him.

"Why are you back so late?" I didn't look at him, feeling a bit angry.

I didn't even know why I was angry. What was there to be mad about? Getting angry over a murderer wasn't worth it.

Yet, I was angry. Women really are incomprehensible creatures.

He walked over to me. I sniffed slightly; fortunately, there was no smell of blood. He wasn't injured.

I couldn't see his face clearly, only hearing his voice: "Why aren't you asleep yet?"

In my irritation, I had no mood to answer and raised my voice to question him: "Where did you go? Did you go kill someone again? What else can you do besides this—"

"Ye Fengzhi," he interrupted me, crouching down in front of me.

I was still dazed by him calling my name, only able to stare blankly at his every movement, feeling my heart pound.

He knew my name.

I looked down at the man crouching before me as he carefully reached out to wipe away my falling tears.

"Why are you crying? Why do you cry so easily?" His voice was gentle, very soft, softer than the night breeze.

I let him wipe my tears, saying nothing, but for some reason, the more he wiped, the more they fell.

I couldn't control it; I just felt so aggrieved.

"Where did you go today..." I finally burst into tears. "Are you really that brave? I'm your hostage. Aren't you really afraid I'll run away?"

"I'm sorry," he didn't argue, only silently continuing to wipe the tears from my face.

I stared at him blankly, my eyes slightly red, and my tears finally stopped.

He walked out to the living room, and I stubbornly followed behind.

His long silhouette stretched across the floor under the moonlight filtering through the French windows. For some reason, his back looked so lonely.

He poured me a glass of water. I didn't take it but took a few steps forward—

And hugged him.

His body stiffened. A murderer, yet he didn't dare to move.

I hugged him for a long time before he reacted, asking me what was wrong.

Actually, I didn't know what was wrong with me either. Looking at his back, thinking of the things he had done, I just wanted to hold him for a moment.