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墨書 Inktalez
Her thoughts were in disarray, constantly flashing images of Zhou Kai with that woman. They laughed together, embraced each other, and those scenes pierced her heart like a blade. She forced herself to stop imagining, but the pain lingered, as if it had been etched into her very bones.
Lin Jin sat on the sofa, the dim and warm light in the room contrasting sharply with the bone-deep cold she felt. She lowered her head, tears dripping onto the floor, making faint sounds. Her shoulders trembled incessantly, as if trying to shake off all the pain buried deep within her.
Faced with this evidence, Lin Jin chose not to confront Zhou Kai. She knew that such a confrontation would only deepen their irreparable rift and strip her of any remaining dignity in a marriage already teetering on the edge. Instead, she opted for silence, continuing to play the role of a good wife, at least maintaining the facade of a complete family.
However, this silence gradually eroded her inner strength. Every morning, she still woke up early to prepare breakfast for Zhou Kai. Watching him put on his coat and leave the house felt like watching a stranger walk away. She tried multiple times to muster the courage to speak up but always recoiled at the moment she opened her mouth, ultimately choosing silence instead. The ticking of the kitchen clock seemed to mock her helplessness; she mechanically flipped the spatula in the pan, her movements skilled yet stiff, while her heart felt hollow, like a soulless puppet.
At dinner time, when Zhou Kai returned home and they sat at the same table, the atmosphere was so cold it made her shiver. Lin Jin attempted to ease the tension by bringing up amusing stories from work or trivial matters about their neighbors, but Zhou Kai's responses were always brief and indifferent. He would often lower his head to stare at his phone, never bothering to look at her. Lin Jin's gaze fell on Zhou Kai's profile; seeing his expressionless face stirred an indescribable ache and loneliness within her. She knew all too well that the distance between them had become an insurmountable chasm; every effort she made seemed to dissipate into thin air, utterly futile.
At night, lying in the same bed, their silence felt like an unbridgeable wall between them. Lin Jin lay on her side, gazing at the faint moonlight spilling onto the curtains outside, feeling an unprecedented sense of alienation. She often wanted to reach out and touch Zhou Kai, hoping to reclaim even a sliver of their past warmth, but her hand ultimately hovered in mid-air before gently retreating. She could no longer offer Zhou Kai a genuine smile or share life's little moments with him. Whenever he drew near, an instinctive aversion surged within her like a thick wall that blocked all connection between them.
This silence and distance were akin to a silent torment, gradually eroding her inner self until only endless numbness and self-deception remained. She continued playing the role of a good wife—waking early to prepare breakfast for Zhou Kai, cleaning the house, organizing clothes—but each action seemed devoid of its original meaning, reduced to mechanical repetition. Watching herself in the kitchen stirring soup felt like being trapped in an unending dream—a suffocating nightmare.
In the counseling room, Lin Jin met Zhang Xiaohui, a woman on the brink of collapse due to a broken marriage. Zhang Xiaohui's eyes were filled with despair and pain; that expression of hopelessness for the future deeply moved Lin Jin. She saw her own reflection—a woman who had lost direction and hope within her marriage, a wife yearning for love yet forced to endure in silence.
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