Chapter 236

The faint weariness in her eyes quickly vanished, replaced once more by that detached calm.

She waved her hand lightly, and from the distant study, a very ordinary, even somewhat aged envelope floated over. The envelope had no stamp, no address—only a simple “C” written in blue ink.

“You just mentioned ‘the past,’” Yang Yi held the envelope but did not immediately hand it to Chris; instead, she gently traced its edge with her fingertips. “I found it when we moved into Lingshu Biyuan. Probably written during some drunken chaos in Haibei City. I never intended to give it to you, never thought I’d have the chance to let you see it.”

She handed the envelope to him.

Chris’s fingers were stiff as he took the light, floating envelope and slowly opened it.

Inside was only one page torn from a ordinary notebook; the strokes revealed the confusion induced by alcohol.

C:

If one day we ever have the chance to speak as equals, I will walk toward you as if nothing were amiss.

Wearing a polite smile, I’ll say, “Hello.”

I know my heart is pounding, but I must appear indifferent, unbothered—“I’ve seen your work. Could you sign it for me?”

I can imagine how you’d gracefully show the proper humility, just as I wish.

I’ll ask for your contact details, even though it’s slightly immodest—that’s why I need equality, even superiority; only then will unconventional actions not seem rude, but charming, interesting, approachable.

Before that, it’s only self-inflicted humiliation.

I despise all these formalities—artificial constructs that create inequality, class, and division.

I scorn all indirectness, hidden intentions, pretense.

But out of pride, because I fear this deep, winding emotion, like a black pool, might frighten you.

These thoughts are tangled, like a spider’s web, impossible to articulate.

This thick emotion is like honey, like bitter water, like asphalt, like a swamp.

I won’t contact you often, just like ordinary friends—neither close nor distant.

Though I’ll stare at your number tens of thousands of times, waiting for the right moment—when will that be? I don’t know.

When you’re depressed?

When you’re struck by misfortune?

I’ll take you across mountains and rivers, overlook the rolling sea of clouds, fly through thunderstorms and dark clouds, dive deep into the ocean to see shipwrecks and giants. I’ll show you this Earth, and the entire universe.

Before eternal nature and time, human troubles are too small, human life too brief, our desires will fade.

I’ll slowly reveal my true intentions.

We’ll gradually grow familiar, exchange messages and videos, share our hobbies and lives.

Deepen our understanding—mostly your understanding of me, and only the part I choose to show you.

I’ve long known you inside and out: your appearance, your experiences, your work, your hobbies, your habits, your family, friends, colleagues, your romantic history, your exes…

The only thing I don’t know is your heart—and the path to reach it.

I want to be a strategist, a tactician, planning every step carefully.

Yet I worry I’m a terrible actor, that I’ve already betrayed myself—after all, you’re the professional.

I want to draw near, yet can’t help retreating.

I want to possess you, yet fear losing you.

I hesitate, yet try to move forward.

I feel I love you, yet wonder if I’m loving an illusion, a dream beyond reach.

But to let you go—that’s impossible.

I’ll practice the talent heaven granted me; perhaps one day I’ll give you an experience unlike any other.

Perhaps before making promises, I won’t be very loyal.

Perhaps I’ll try all the things I’ve never tried, longed for—experience them, enjoy them, enrich my life, make up for the dullness and paleness of the past.

Those things I once desired but never attained: fine food, beautiful scenery, beautiful people, and freedom…

Perhaps I’ll travel alone to every hidden corner of Earth, go camping, live in seclusion, or rush through places, or savor them slowly.

Or travel, or indulge, or wander, or drift with the current.

While I still have the means.

You alone were my obsession, and still are.

Once I had no right to approach you; now I still tread carefully.

I’ve gilded you with imagination.

You are the most precious gem, jade, pearl on Earth—brighter than gold; you are the embodiment of dreams, the metaphysical, perfection itself.

You are fantasy, mirage, castle in the air, a hallucination.

You are projection, a conduit. Through imagining you, I imagine another possible life.

A life more beautiful, more dreamlike, simpler, happier.

Even if the dream ends, the illusion shatters, I must still have you.

Before meeting you, I would have wished you happiness.

After meeting you, I will love you, cherish you, respect you, understand you—become your lover, your paramour, your friend, your kin, your confidant, your mother, your daughter… every role you need or don’t need.

Or imprison you, destroy you.

As long as you love me.

As long as you satisfy me.

I am a person who upholds rules, follows morality, believes in universal values—a good person by ordinary standards.

But I have no qualms about breaking the principles I’ve always followed and defended for you.

I possess reason, yet I have no objection to madness.

I once thought the world would be orderly, everything in its place—but in truth, it is chaotic, formless, dark, a mix of black and white.

I take pride in my rationality, yet deep inside, another voice urges me to free myself, to follow my heart, even to the brink of insanity.

You are not the cause, but you may become one outcome.

You are the male protagonist of my romantic fantasy, the pillar holding me against the emptiness of ordinary life.

You are my longing for beauty, the refuge from life’s meaninglessness, a part of existence itself.

Because of you, I once wished for parallel worlds—in countless similar realities, there must be some possibility where you and I meet.

Now, that possibility has a chance to become real.

Accept me, respond to me, love me, fulfill my expectations.

I will love you, offer you everything in this world.

…Or kill you.

—The letter bore no date, no signature; it ended abruptly.

Chris held the paper, licked his dry lips—not because of the line “kill you.”

But because the Yang Yi in this letter was so vivid, so pained, so humbly yet arrogantly craving a “normal” love, yet despairingly certain she could never have it.

Every word brimmed with “humanity”—fragility, dependence, self-loathing, hope, even pathology.

This letter was written in the past—the very “past” he had just been mourning.

Yet the writer of this letter had just moments ago told him, in a voice calm and unrippled, that those emotions were “useless chemical reactions,” “errors” to be stripped away.

A crushing sense of dissonance instantly swallowed him.

What he mourned was precisely what she now saw as a burden and had herself torn away.

The tormented soul he once longed to understand and comfort had now forged herself into something else—a being no longer needing, perhaps no longer even understanding, such comfort.

He realized Yang Yi showed him this letter not to reminisce or explain, but more like a… display. Like a scientist calmly showing an audience before-and-after images of an experiment subject: Look, this was its former state, full of inefficient flaws; this is its current state—the optimal adaptation to a new environment.

She wasn’t seeking understanding; she was stating a fact: I have changed. This is the path I chose. And on that path, there is no place left for the me of the past—and naturally, no place for you, who clings to that past me.

The light sheet of paper burned in his hands.

Chris slowly sank onto the sofa, the letter trembling slightly in his grip.

Yang Yi leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him silently.

The CIA of Akka understood her better than she understood herself—the Mirror Project—yes, she didn’t need a lover; she needed only a mirror, a tool to project herself. She didn’t even care if he loved her or betrayed her; as long as he perfectly played this mirror, his existence had meaning.

She didn’t need a lover or intimacy; she needed only a obedient slave who met her standards, a relationship she dominated. She didn’t care what he sought from her, nor whether he harbored hidden agendas—because as long as she held absolute power, she could bear any consequence, even the worst, as if it were but a drop in the ocean.

Yes, she had once been infatuated with Chris, seeing him as a perfect illusion. But true infatuation existed only when he was unreachable; when he stood before her in body, emotion, and thought, the space for infatuation vanished.

The version of her who once adored him adored only the space, the abstract emotion and false narrative she’d created in her mind. She didn’t know him, and perhaps didn’t even truly need him—perhaps when she adored him, she only wished for a perfect being who needed her.

“Perhaps what I loved was not you, but the passion I poured into you. Like a temple—even in ruin, it remains an altar. Like a statue—even fallen, it remains a god.”

Of course, she still needed him—needed this collapsed illusion to serve as her anchor, so she wouldn’t drift too far from herself… though this was inevitable…

Yang Yi looked at Chris’s vacant face and sat beside him gently, speaking softly as she once had: “Darling, you look so pitiful.”

Chris’s stiff body stirred; suddenly he opened his arms and embraced her. “Yang Yi, don’t leave me…”

Which Yang Yi was he calling? Yang Yi thought quietly—was it the “past” one? Or the one beside him now?

The night at Lingshu Biyuan remained silent as ever.

Yet beneath that silence, something once alive and pulsing was slowly fading into tranquil nothingness…