The ride home felt longer than usual. Even though the streets were mostly empty, and the driver said nothing, Xinyi's mind was filled with noise. The taste of the meal lingered on her tongue, the echoes of her own laughter at the amusement park still fresh in her memory.
Yet, as soon as she stepped through the front door, the warmth from earlier vanished.
The house was silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but suffocating. The dim hallway lights flickered slightly, and the air felt heavier.
Xinyi locked herself in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed. Her fingers hovered over her phone. Her heart felt conflicted.
A house. He had actually bought a house for her.
The idea was terrifying but also… tempting.
For years, she had accepted that this house—this cold, suffocating place—was the only world she was allowed to exist in. But Zhao Chen had casually handed her an escape. As if it were that easy. As if leaving didn’t come with consequences.
She exhaled sharply and shook her head. Don’t think about it.
Instead, she opened her laptop, trying to focus on something—anything—to distract herself.
She stared at the screen. The cursor blinked. It should have been simple. Just a coding problem, a small bug in the program she had been testing. But her hands weren’t steady, her mind refusing to concentrate.
The sound of the front door slamming shut made her jump.
Footsteps. Voices.
Her parents were home.
And then—her name.
“Li Xinyi!”
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, stepping out of her room as if her legs were acting on instinct.
Her parents were standing in the living room, their faces unreadable at first—until her mother crossed her arms, expression twisting into suspicion.
“Where were you today?” her mother demanded.
Xinyi felt her stomach tighten. She had planned on sneaking back without them noticing, but it seemed luck wasn’t on her side.
“I…” she hesitated. Lying wouldn’t work. “I went out.”
“With who?”
Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find an answer fast enough.
Her father scoffed. “You think we wouldn’t find out? Someone saw you! You were with a boy!”
Xinyi’s heart pounded. Of course. Of course, someone had seen her. This wasn’t the first time. No matter how careful she was, there were always eyes watching.
“Who is he? Is it the same boy at the café the other day? ” her mother snapped. “Your boyfriend?”
Xinyi flinched. “No, it’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like?”
Her mother’s voice cut through her like a knife.
Before she could respond, her father spoke again, his voice cold and sharp. “You’ve always been selfish. Acting out. Causing trouble. It’s no wonder your brother left.”
Xinyi froze.
It had been two years since they last said that.
She thought—hoped—they had finally stopped blaming her.
But no.
Even after all this time, they still thought it was her fault.
The guilt hit her like a wave.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as her parents continued scolding her. Words blurred together—irresponsible, ungrateful, reckless.
All she could do was stand there and take it.
When it finally ended, she numbly walked back to her room and locked the door. Her legs felt weak as she sank onto the bed, wrapping her arms around herself.
Her vision blurred.
She shouldn’t cry.
But her chest was so tight, and no matter how much she tried to breathe, it felt like she was suffocating.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for her phone.
She wanted to talk to someone.
She wanted him.
But she couldn’t say that.
Instead, she typed out something meaningless.
Xinyi: How do you fix a run-time error?
The message sent. She stared at the screen, waiting, doubting, regretting.
Seconds later, the reply came.
Zhao Chen: Depends on the cause. What did you do before the error showed up?
She hesitated.
What was she even doing?
She could tell from his response that he had already noticed something was off. He wasn’t pushing her, but the way he worded it—calm, patient—felt like he was telling her that if she wanted to talk, he was listening.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She wanted to say something.
Wanted to tell him she felt like she was drowning in a house she didn’t belong to. That her parents would never stop seeing her as a burden. That she was scared.
But instead, she just typed:
Xinyi: I’ll figure it out.
His reply came after a pause.
Zhao Chen: Alright. Let me know if you need help.
She stared at his words for a long time.
Somehow, knowing that he wouldn’t push her made it worse.
Because deep down, she wanted him to ask.
To tell her that leaving was okay.
That she wasn’t being selfish.
That she had somewhere to go.
But she couldn’t risk it.
Not when she knew the consequences.
Not when she knew what happened when people left.
Her brother had walked out of this house years ago. He had chosen freedom, and in doing so, he left her behind.
If she left, too, would her parents turn their hatred toward Zhao Chen? Would they report him? Would they destroy his future, just like they tried to destroy hers?
Her chest ached.
She couldn’t do that to him.
She didn’t want to lose him.
So she put her phone down and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She wouldn’t leave.
Not yet.
But for the first time, she realized something terrifying.
She wanted to.
And that thought refused to leave her mind as she closed her eyes, trying—and failing—to sleep.