Obsessive Young Master Wei: My Beloved Loses Control Every Night

At 7:50, Butler Li appeared outside the door on time.

"Miss Bian, the young master has entered the activity room. You may go in now."

Bian Zhizhi took a deep breath and picked up the toolbox she had prepared.

It contained a few carefully selected art materials that were soft in texture and would not produce sharp sounds.

It mainly consists of several pieces of polymer clay in different colors and some plain cardstock.

"Okay, please lead the way."

The activity room was right next to her room, but it felt like a completely different world.

Butler Li pushed open the door and stepped aside.

"Please. If you need to come out before lunchtime, please press the call bell inside the door."

Bian Zhizhi nodded and stepped inside.

The door closed gently behind her.

The activity room is large, with a full-length window facing south.

However, the blackout curtains were only half-open, filtering the sunlight into a grayish-white hue that barely illuminated the entire space.

The room was soundproofed, as if the outside world was completely shut out.

Then, she saw him.

Wei Zixian.

He was curled up in the dark blue armchair by the window.

He was dressed in white cotton shirt and pants of the same material, which made him look unusually thin, almost blending into the sofa behind him.

He was holding a book in his hands, and he didn't even lift his eyelids when Bian Zhizhi entered.

Bian Zhizhi's heart began to beat faster involuntarily.

Despite having prepared herself mentally, this complete disregard for her existence still brought pressure.

She didn't rush to say hello.

The instructor repeatedly emphasized this in class:

When interacting with patients, any proactive eye contact or verbal probing may initially be perceived as an intrusion.

Especially in the other party's "safe territory," silence is the best form of respect.

Bian Zhizhi kept those three ironclad rules in mind, especially the first one.

No unsolicited physical contact is allowed.

She looked around.

On the other side of the room, against the wall, were several bookshelves filled with all kinds of books, neatly categorized and arranged in a rigid manner.

In the middle is a long solid wood table, the tabletop of which is completely empty.

She chose the end of the long table away from the sofa and put down her tool bag.

She took the prepared block of uncolored clay from her bag and placed it on the table, but did not start immediately.

She simply sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the small patch of sky separated by the curtains outside the window, as if adjusting to the atmosphere of the space.

Time passed by, second by second.

The only sound in the room was the occasional turning of pages.

Standard healing procedures are completely useless here.

The textbooks on "establishing eye contact," "guiding verbal expression," and "empathetic feedback" are now just scraps of paper.

Any attempt to establish a connection, whether through language or eye contact, can be perceived as an attack.

Bian Zhizhi remembered what her mentor had said.

"Sometimes, the strongest communication is no communication. It's about being present, being there, and making the other person feel that your presence is not threatening."

She decided to change her strategy.

She stopped trying to look at him and instead focused her attention entirely on the clay in her hands.

She opened the sealed box and took out the original-colored polymer clay, about the size of an egg, with a slightly dry surface.

She gently pressed the center of the mud with her fingers, feeling the slight resistance.

He started talking to himself, his voice soft and slow, as if he were humming a song without a melody.

"The weather doesn't look too good today, the clouds are very thick... I wonder if it will rain."

"This clay feels great, very soft, a bit like... well, a bit like the Play-Doh we played with as kids, but finer."

"When I lived in New York, there was a small park downstairs, and after it rained, the dirt smelled like this..."

Her voice was just right, neither abrupt nor noisy.

She was talking about trivial, unimportant things.

It is not directed at anyone, nor does it expect any response; it is simply a description of one's own senses and memories.

She mentioned that the pigeons in the park always snatched bread crumbs, that there was a saxophone performer on the subway, and that the coffee sold downstairs in her dormitory was both bitter and fragrant.

As she spoke, she began to slowly knead the clay with the heel of her palm.

She didn't try to mold any specific shape; she simply felt the texture and changes of the soil on her fingertips.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes...

Wei Zixian remained in the same position, seemingly immersed in his own world, oblivious to everything around him.

Bian Zhizhi's throat began to dry, but she didn't stop.

She knew that in the initial stages, patience was more important than any skill.

In this gentle way, I leave my mark little by little in this enclosed space.

"After massaging for a while, your palms will feel a little warm..."

"I remember there was a kind of blue clay that, after being fired, would turn the color of the sky after rain..."

Just then, she seemed to catch a slight change out of the corner of her eye.

Wei Zixian's fingers, which were turning the pages of the book, paused for a moment.

It is so brief that it is almost imperceptible.

Moreover, his gaze, which had been completely focused on the pages of the book, seemed to momentarily sweep across the top of the book and towards her hands as she kneaded the clay.

Bian Zhizhi's heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to maintain her original rhythm, and her breathing remained perfectly steady.

She didn't even look up at him, still focused intently on the clay in her hands.

She couldn't show any sign that she noticed his reaction, as that might scare him away.

But she knew that Wei Zixian had already started to pay attention to her.

She continued kneading the mud, describing in the same calm tone a plant covered in tiny white flowers, as if that startling glimpse had never happened.

However, deep within her lowered eyes, a glimmer of hope quietly shone.

This long first day seems to have finally torn open a tiny crack.

The days passed by.

Bian Zhizhi became a regular background noise in Wei Zixian's activity room.

She would show up on time every day, choosing a spot far away from him to perform her "one-woman show."

Sometimes she kneads clay, sometimes she sketches quietly, and sometimes she simply organizes the softly colored cards she brings.

She continued her "audio accompaniment," with content still consisting of mundane details of daily life or sensory descriptions of materials.

She mentioned a bird flying by outside the window, recalled an interesting professor from her university days, and even described the taste of the soup she had for dinner yesterday.

Of course, she carefully avoided any personal information that might trigger associations.

Wei Zixian remained silent most of the time.

But Bian Zhizhi could sense that his tolerance for her "existence" was increasing.

For the first few days, the sound of her unzipping her bag would make his shoulders tremble slightly.

By the second week, he was able to remain still for up to three minutes while she was tidying up the cards.

Occasionally, as she fiddled with the clay turner, producing a rhythmic buzzing sound, he would pause between turning the pages, his hand lingering on the paper for a moment.