Obsessive Young Master Wei: My Beloved Loses Control Every Night

Wei Zixian shook his head.

He pushed the chair back and got up, his movements a little hasty, the chair legs scraping against the floor.

He was also taken aback for a moment, looking down at the chair that had been pushed aside, and then at his own hands.

That shouldn't be the case.

There shouldn't be such emotional fluctuations.

He took a deep breath, forced himself to regain his breathing rhythm, turned around, and walked outside.

The corridor was long and covered with Persian carpets, which were soft and silent underfoot.

The walls are covered with oil paintings, mostly landscapes.

These paintings were already hanging there when he moved into the house, and in the twelve years since, he had never seriously looked at any of them.

But today, as he passed an oil painting depicting a beach at sunset, he slowed his pace.

In the scene, the setting sun dyes the seawater golden red, and waves with foam crash onto the beach. In the distance, two very small figures hold hands and walk towards the rocks further away.

Wei Zixian stopped and looked up at the painting.

He remembered that there were beaches in the movies.

The male and female protagonists are running on the beach at dusk. The waves wet the female protagonist's skirt, and she turns around with a smile and calls out the male protagonist's name.

At that time, the sound system in the screening room played the sound of ocean waves, so realistic that it was as if you could smell the salty sea breeze.

Beside him, Bian Zhizhi sighed softly.

The sigh was so soft that he wouldn't have heard it at all if his entire attention hadn't been on her, and if the theater hadn't been so quiet that only the movie soundtrack remained.

But he did hear it.

"Young Master?"

Butler Li's voice came from behind.

Wei Zixian snapped out of his daze and realized that he had been staring at the painting for far too long.

He looked away and turned back, his steps quickening as if he were fleeing something.

The door to the activity room was ajar.

He pushed open the door, and Bian Zhizhi was already sitting on the sofa by the window.

She wore a beige knitted cardigan over a light blue cotton dress, and her hair was loosely tied back and secured with a wooden hairpin.

She had a hardcover book open on her lap, looking down at it, a pen in her right hand, occasionally jotting something down in the notebook beside her, her expression focused.

Wei Zixian stood at the door, not going in immediately.

He looked at her.

The scene was so quiet that the feeling of falling in his heart slowly disappeared.

I feel grounded again.

He went inside and sat down on the sofa opposite her.

The sofa is very soft, and you can hear the fabric rubbing together when you sink into it.

Bian Zhizhi looked up from her book, saw him, and her eyes crinkled into a smile.

"Good morning, young master," she said.

Wei Zixian nodded without saying anything, but his gaze lingered on her face for a couple more seconds.

He noticed that she was wearing a very light lipstick today, a dusty rose color that was close to her natural lip color, almost invisible unless you looked closely.

But when sunlight shines on it, it will have a slightly damp sheen.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

The sound was more natural than I expected.

Bian Zhizhi closed the book, revealing the cover: "Attachment Theory and Trauma Repair".

"A professional book." She handed the book to him, showing him the cover.

"There's a case study inside that's similar to your situation; I'm taking notes."

Wei Zixian looked at the book.

The cover is dark blue with a silver-stamped title, and the corners show signs of wear from being flipped through.

He didn't take it, he just looked at it, and then asked, "Similar?"

"Hmm." Bian Zhizhi put the book away, turned to a certain page, and pointed to a paragraph with her finger.

"Here. This patient also experienced social avoidance due to major trauma, but gradually recovered social functioning by establishing stable relationships."

"You think..." he began, then paused, as if choosing his words carefully, "that's the kind of relationship we have?"

Bian Zhizhi looked up at him.

"I believe," she said slowly, "that the relationship we've built together is helpful for your recovery. That's enough."

She didn't answer directly.

But Wei Zixian understood.

"Helpful" is a "supportive relationship".

"Non-judgmental" means that she never looked at him with any strange eyes.

"Stability" is what defines her presence here every day for the past three months, without ever missing a single day.

He lowered his eyes and looked at his hands resting on his knees.

The fingers are long and slender with distinct knuckles, and there are light blue veins on the back of the hand.

These hands have held paintbrushes and piano bows, and on countless nights, they have gripped bedsheets tightly until their knuckles turned white.

And now, those hands are relaxed and outstretched in the morning light.

Palms facing upwards, as if waiting for something, or perhaps showing something.

"The movie," he suddenly said, "can we still watch it tonight?"

The voice was low, with a tentative tone.

He regretted it as soon as he said it.

That's too rushed; only three days have passed.

That shouldn't be the case.

But Bian Zhizhi didn't show any surprise.

She simply tilted her head, as if thinking, and then spoke.

"If you'd like, that's fine. But tonight I suggest watching something light, like a comedy, how about that?"

"You choose," he said.

"Okay." Bian Zhizhi smiled, a faint smile, but her eyes curved into crescents. "Then I'll pick one this afternoon."

The conversation has ended.

She lowered her head to read again, while he randomly picked up a picture book from the bookshelf.

This is one of the few books he can still concentrate on and that doesn't trigger too many associations in his mind.

The activity room fell silent again.

Wei Zixian looked at the illustrated guide, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

He was thinking about tonight's movie.

I'm wondering what kind of comedy she'll choose.

He wondered if she would hold his hand again in the darkness.

The moment this thought popped into his head, he felt his ears getting hot.

He subconsciously raised his hand and touched his earlobe, which felt slightly hot.

He immediately lowered his hand as if burned, then buried his head even lower, almost touching the pages of the book.

But he didn't realize that the corners of his lips were expressing happiness.

The morning's healing activity was music listening.

Bian Zhizhi selected several instrumental pieces of different styles but with soothing melodies: Debussy's "Clair de Lune", Joe Hisaishi's "One Summer's Day", and a natural sound effect with the sound of flowing water.

Wei Zixian leaned back on the sofa with his eyes closed.

He used to be very resistant to this part.

The enclosed space and the uncontrollable sounds would remind him of some bad memories.

But the way the side branches are arranged is very clever.

She never forced him to listen; she would simply put on her headphones, sit quietly, and close her eyes to rest.

Occasionally, she would quietly describe what she had heard.

"The sound of the piano is like raindrops falling on glass."

"Doesn't this string music sound like wind blowing through a wheat field?"

"There are birdsongs here, hidden beneath the chords."

Gradually, he took off his noise-canceling headphones.

First, he took off one ear, and then one day, while she was describing a sound like a mountain stream, he took off his headphones completely.

Now, he can listen to a 30-minute piece of music with her.