His words were like a cold scalpel, precisely dissecting Mu Xinrong's chaotic emotional core and presenting the bloody reality before him.
There is no comfort, no empty encouragement, only cold, inescapable choices.
Mu Xinrong stared at Ye Qingliu in a daze. Avoid? Fester? Face? Risk? Heal? Collapse?
Every word was like a hammer, hitting his chaotic thoughts.
He remembered Chao Youye's curled-up figure on Wutong Road, the hot tear he shed, the gray mark on his wrist that symbolized the collapse of rules... He also remembered the boy's bright smile and clumsy scarf long ago.
Love?
Hate?
Can you let it go?
The answer surged in my heart, painful and clear.
He can't let go.
Mu Xinrong took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand.
Although sadness and confusion still remained in the red and swollen eyes, the empty feeling of despair seemed to be replaced by something heavier called "decision".
He looked at the closed door of the guest room, his eyes becoming complicated and determined.
"I... understand." He said in a hoarse voice. His voice was not loud, but it carried a heavy tone of desperate determination.
Ye Qingliu looked at him, nodded imperceptibly, and opened the book in his hand again, as if he had just solved a complicated exercise.
Mu Xinrong leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes wearily. His chaotic emotions hadn't completely subsided, but at least his direction seemed a little clearer.
The night is still long and the cold after the snow is still everywhere, but under the warm light in the villa, two scarred souls are silently accumulating courage to face tomorrow.
In the guest room, next to the bowl of white porridge that had long since gone cold, Chao Youye's fingers, which were tightly gripping the edge of the bowl, seemed to... loosen slightly in her sleep.
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