But the woman before me was sitting by the tombstone drinking, her bangs slightly disheveled by the wind, with two strands clinging to her cheeks.
Two buttons on her collar were casually undone, revealing a bit of her collarbone. Fine downy hairs were even visible on her skin, and there was an indescribable weariness hidden between her brows and eyes.
Even the bloodshot eyes weren't concealed—making her look a thousand times more real and vibrant than on camera.
She was no longer the perfectly packaged "celebrity Xin Zimo," but just an ordinary person sitting in front of a tombstone drinking.
Like anyone with something on their mind, she was a little vulnerable, a little genuinely weary, and even her breathing was slower than in front of the camera.
I didn't reply, but just kept grinding my fingertips in the cracks between the grass-covered paving stones, my nails digging deep into the soft soil.
Even the astringent taste of grass roots and the dampness of soil seeped between my fingers, leaving a few shallow, twisted marks, as if silently venting something.
As a forensic pathologist, I am used to capturing the finest subcutaneous hemorrhages on the autopsy table and distinguishing the faintest tissue debris under a microscope.
Even the fibers under the deceased's fingernails and the trace amounts of toxins remaining on their clothing could be traced back to their source.
But when faced with her own surging emotions, she always seemed like a helpless novice—far inferior to Qianluo in this respect.
She could always laugh nonchalantly amidst gunfire, even telling me about the burning sensation left by bullets grazing her ear as a joke, saying, "The wind was so strong today, I almost got blown away."
When he returns from a mission, even if he's injured, he'll first smile and ruffle my hair, saying, "Forensic Doctor Mo, can you cook me a bowl of noodles tonight?"
The turmoil I couldn't hide in my eyes at that moment—the panic, the helplessness, and the embarrassment of having my innermost thoughts exposed—was probably already clearly seen by Xin Ziming.
Even the small, unconscious movements of my knuckles turning white as I clenched the blades of grass, and the fingertips rubbing together, did not escape her notice.
She didn't care whether I responded or not, casually twirling the empty wine glass between her fingers, the rim brushing against the calluses on her fingertips, making a soft "rustling" sound.
The porcelain cup occasionally bumped against the wine pot on his knee, then bounced away gently with a soft sound.
Her eyes were lowered, her long eyelashes casting a faint shadow beneath them, obscuring the emotions within, as if she were merely talking to the evening breeze.
It was as if he were reciting a pre-written script, his tone devoid of any probing, only an almost certain calmness.
The voice was flat and monotonous, without any inflection, yet each word was like a needle chilled to the bone, piercing the heart and making one's breath catch in their throat.
"Your name is Mo Yun, a forensic doctor in the Municipal Public Security Bureau's Technical Section. You were once recognized as an outstanding individual in the criminal investigation system."
On the day of the award ceremony, Qianluo took half a day off to buy you a bouquet of white roses, saying, "Our forensic doctor Mo deserves the cleanest flowers for winning the award."
You are her lover. You used to live in an alley in the old town, on the second floor with a small balcony, and under the windowsill grew her favorite mint.
Every summer she would pick a few leaves and soak them in ice water, and she would always complain that you added too much sugar.
But lately, you've been gradually forgetting her, haven't you?
Forget the corner of her right eye that would curve up first when she smiled, forget that she always put two spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee and never added milk.
You can hardly remember her habit of always rolling up her sleeves to the middle of her forearm when she wore her police uniform, revealing the faint scar on her wrist.
Sometimes, even when she sees mint, she has to pause for a moment before remembering, "Oh, this is what Qianluo likes."
Yesterday we passed by the noodle shop you used to frequent, and you didn't recognize the owner, did you?
With a "buzz," it felt like a string that had been taut for a long time in my mind suddenly snapped.
Even the sound of the wind and the rustling of the pines disappeared instantly, leaving only a blank, deafening roar in the world.
I looked up at her abruptly, my pupils contracting uncontrollably, the shock in my eyes almost overflowing. My hand trembled, and the blade of grass I was holding fell to the ground with a "thud".
My fingertips were still covered in damp soil and bits of grass.
This is a female celebrity who sings, dances, and laughs on screen, living under the spotlight.
How could someone who should have no connection to such heavy words as "police officer," "forensic doctor," "cemetery," and "forgotten" know these things? How could they possibly know these things?
They know my name, my profession, the details of Qianluo giving me white roses on the day of the award ceremony, and that mint was planted under the balcony of the old house we lived in.
I even know about the scars on her wrists and the noodle shop we frequented—those struggles that I couldn't fully explain to my therapist.
Those fears that haunt you when you wake up in the middle of the night, fears you dare not even think about.
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