Secret breathing takes root in the deep night

At 2:17 AM, I opened my eyes in the darkness, my heart pounding from the dream I had just had. In the dream, I was trapped in a giant glass maze, Gu Yanshen smiled at me from outside, and every impact I made only left a faint mark on the glass.

Beside me, his breathing was steady, but his arm remained in a possessive position. It took me a full three minutes to remove his arm without waking him.

Barefoot on the cold floor, I slipped into the study like a shadow. My old laptop was hidden in the hardcover of the Cihai dictionary, which I had brought back last week under the pretext of looking up information, mixed in with a pile of serious books.

When I turn on the computer, I habitually cover the fan outlet with a pillow to block out the slight noise.

Nearly ten thousand words have accumulated in this document. From the incoherent outpouring at the beginning to the gradually taking shape of the article now, these words are the breathing hole I secretly chiseled in my suffocating life.

Tonight I'm writing about my flower arranging class. I'm still bothered by Mr. Nakamura's comment about my work: "It's too regular, like pictures in a catalog."

I wrote, "When every angle is prescribed, when the placement of every flower must be approved by him, how can I find my soul in flower arrangement? Perhaps what he wants is never a soulmate."

As I was saving the document, a bold idea suddenly came to my mind.

I logged into an anonymous email account I'd secretly registered last week while my phone was being repaired. In the recipient field, I entered the correct email address—I'd burned the business card, but the number on it was etched in my memory like a brand.

Attachment, Document. Title, "Trapped Voices".

My mouse hovered over the send button for a long time, my fingertips cold. Finally, I pressed it.

The moment the progress bar finished, I quickly cleared all the records and hid the computer back to its original place. When I returned to the bed, Gu Yanshen unconsciously tightened his arms in his sleep and hugged me tighter.

The next day at breakfast, he asked casually, "Did you have insomnia again last night?"

"Yeah." I lowered my head to cut the omelet. "Maybe I drank too much coffee."

He reached out and stroked the dark circles under my eyes. "Let the doctor take a look today and prescribe some tranquilizers."

I nodded obediently, but alarm bells were ringing inside me. He was so perceptive that even the slightest change would not escape his notice.

While he was at the company, I used the excuse of buying some jianshan for flower arrangements and went to the flower market in the east of the city again. After confirming that no one was following me, I turned into the cafe where we had agreed to meet.

Chen Que was already waiting at his usual spot. Seeing me, he pushed a fashion magazine towards me.

"Look at this." He pointed to one of the articles.

Exquisite Cage: The Emotional Dilemma of Objectified Contemporary Women. Signed "Mockingbird."

It was my article. They made minor revisions, removing overly personal details but retaining the core idea. My hands trembled slightly as I watched my words become printed.

"The reader response has been very good." Shen Que lowered his voice. "The editor-in-chief asked Robin if he could open a column."

Column. That word makes my heart race.

"It's too dangerous." I looked around subconsciously.

"We can be more careful." Chen Que handed over an old phone, "Use this to keep in touch. Change the SIM card every time you meet."

I stared at the phone as if it were a Pandora's box.

The moment I accepted the phone, I felt a long-lost thrill. This was an opportunity I had fought for, not a gift from Gu Yanshen.

On the way back, I hid my new phone in the compartment of my bag. The driver, Lao Chen, glanced at me in the rearview mirror and asked, "Ma'am, are you in a good mood today?"

My heart tightened: "I bought the right vase."

When I got home, Gu Yanshen had returned early. He stood in front of the surveillance screen in the living room, lost in thought.

"Did you have fun?" He turned around, his smile impeccable.

"Not bad." I showed him the vase. "Mr. Nakamura said I wanted a plain pottery dish."

He took the vase and played with it, then suddenly asked, "How did you get to that store in the west of the city? Lao Chen said you asked him to take a detour."

My blood ran cold. He was watching me.

"I wanted to stop by and see Mom," I said, forcing myself to remain calm. "But she was having a checkup today, so I didn't see her."

The excuse was perfect - the sanatorium was indeed in the west of the city.

Gu Yanshen stared at me for a few seconds, then finally smiled: "Let me go with you next time."

The crisis was temporarily resolved, but my back was soaked.

Late at night, I hid in the bathroom, checking my email on my new phone. The editor-in-chief's response was enthusiastic, hoping that "Mockingbird" would continue to contribute. Attached were suggestions for topics for the next issue.

Control in the Name of Love: When Care Becomes a Cage

This topic makes my fingertips tremble. They don’t know that I am writing my own story.

Just as I was about to reply, I heard footsteps outside the door. I hurriedly stuffed my phone into the laundry basket and pretended to wash my hands.

Gu Yanshen pushed the door open and walked in: "What took you so long?"

"Remove makeup." I pointed to the water droplets on my face.

He hugged me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. In the mirror, our reflections were so close, but he couldn't see the fire in my eyes.

The next day, I went out again under the pretext of visiting my mother. In a cafe near the nursing home, I sent the first draft of my first column to Shen Que.

"You have to be careful," Shen Que said seriously, "This kind of subject matter can easily lead to identification."

I smiled wryly: "I'll pay attention."

On the way back, I stopped at a bookstore and bought a few writing tutorials, mixed in with a bunch of flower arranging books. When I checked out, the cashier gave me a second look that gave me a chill.

These subtle suspicions made me realize that I was walking a tightrope.

When Gu Yanshen checked my shopping bag in the evening, he indeed noticed those books.

"Want to learn writing?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Just looking around," I feigned indifference. "Mr. Nakamura said that both flower arranging and writing require the wisdom of 'leaving blank space.'"

This answer seemed to please him. He put the book back in his bag. "My little fish is becoming more and more tasteful."

I breathed a sigh of relief, but when he turned around, I noticed that the positioning indicator light on Yuntuan's collar was flashing abnormally.

Normally, the light flickered regularly every thirty seconds, but now it flickered rapidly as if sending some kind of signal.

My heart skipped a beat.

In the dead of night, I opened the encrypted document again. Words flowed across the screen like vines quietly growing in the dark night.

After saving the document, I gently walked over to Yuntuan. It was sleeping soundly, and the indicator light on its collar had returned to its normal flashing frequency.

Am I overthinking it?

Or is it that even a cat in this house cannot be fully trusted?

Looking at the regular blue light, I suddenly realized: my secret, like this flashing signal, may be exposed to surveillance at any time.

All I can do is let these secrets take root deeper before they are discovered.

Deeper.

What he gave me was not a pet, but a gentle concern that needed to be kept in an exquisite cage.