Water Lily

17

A small lamp glowed softly in the hallway at one in the morning—Song Xiaoran had left it on just for him. Lin Yan turned the doorknob quietly, halfway through changing his shoes when faint rustles drifted from the living room. Wrapped in a blanket, Song Xiaoran sat up from the sofa, her eyes bleary with the last traces of sleep: "You’re back? I heated up soup—it’s in the thermos."

The sharp scent of turpentine from Su Wan’s studio still clung to his clothes, mingling with an unfamiliar gardenia perfume—Su Wan’s new scent, which she’d said "smelled exactly like the library corridors back in university." Lin Yan instinctively shrank back, hanging his coat deep into the rack, his voice deliberately thick with exhaustion: "The project team dropped a last-minute proposal review on us. We worked till now. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Song Xiaoran didn’t harbor a single doubt. She just stepped forward to take his briefcase, her brows furrowing slightly as her fingertips brushed his: "Why are your hands so cold? Was it raining outside?" She turned toward the kitchen to fetch the soup, her figure looking especially gentle and docile bathed in the warm yellow light. "Le Le asked last night why Daddy never reads him bedtime stories anymore. I told him Daddy’s busy with important work, and once you’re free, you’ll take him to pick parasol leaves."

Lin Yan sat at the dining table, staring at the pork rib soup in the thermos—Song Xiaoran knew his stomach was delicate, so she always left a bowl for him on late nights, with his favorite corn and Chinese yam simmered in. He stirred the soup with a spoon, but his appetite had vanished. His mind was flooded with the image of Su Wan clinging to him two hours earlier, her voice trembling: "Lin Yan, don’t leave, okay? When I’m alone in the studio, my heart feels so empty it aches."

He should have said no. When Su Wan called that afternoon, Song Xiaoran had been ironing the shirt he planned to wear the next day. He’d answered right in front of her, saying "urgent project team business," then grabbed his briefcase and rushed out—too cowardly to meet the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Su Wan had been waiting for him at the studio, flinging herself into his arms and bursting into tears as soon as the door closed. She’d said Shen Ze had brought up "having a baby soon" again, that "only you see me as a person, not just an accessory of the Su or Shen family."

Those words were like sugar-coated poison—he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He’d sat with Su Wan on the studio floor, watching her flip through their old university sketches, reading the notes aloud to her until the middle of the night. When Su Wan had taken his hand and begged "don’t go back," he’d hesitated for three long seconds before shaking his head—but still put off coming home until the early hours.

"The soup’s getting cold—drink it quickly," Song Xiaoran said, sitting across from him, holding his medical checkup report. "The doctor said your blood pressure’s been a bit low lately. Don’t stay up so late. If it’s too much, tell the project team—your health matters most." She handed him the report, her fingertip brushing gently over the line that read "get adequate rest," her voice brimming with worry, not a shred of suspicion.

Lin Yan took the report, his fingertips tightening until his knuckles whitened. He knew Song Xiaoran hadn’t been completely oblivious to the oddities—last time a long strand of hair had clung to his shirt collar, Song Xiaoran had only smiled and said "did a female colleague from the project team brush against you by accident?" Last time a message from Su Wan had popped up on his phone (he’d forgotten to turn off notifications), and Song Xiaoran had glimpsed the words "parasol leaf," only commenting lightly "Ms. Su’s still busy with the art exhibition, I see." She always made excuses for him, always chose to see him as the "reliable husband." That trust felt like a heavy chain around his neck—and yet it hadn’t stopped him from running to Su Wan, over and over again.

Such days had become routine. He started staying out overnight more and more often, his excuses ranging from "project reviews" to "field research"—sometimes he’d leave home for no reason other than Su Wan saying "I just want to be with you." Su Wan’s studio had become his "secret sanctuary": there was his own dedicated water cup, a spare coat he kept there, even a portrait Su Wan had painted of him—standing under a parasol tree, his eyes holding the bright light she’d remembered from years ago.

Once, Lin Yan didn’t come home for three whole days. Song Xiaoran’s messages had gone from "Soup’s heated and waiting" to "Le Le misses you" to finally "Grandma asked when you’ll be back—she’s craving the braised pork you make." He’d read them in Su Wan’s studio, his heart feeling as if it were being sliced open. Su Wan had hugged him from behind, resting her chin on his back: "I know you feel guilty, but I only have you."

He’d turned around, and the sight of Su Wan’s tear-filled eyes had suddenly smothered that guilt beneath the obsession that "she only has me." He’d reached out to wipe her tears, saying "I’ll stay with you one more day, then go back tomorrow"—but when tomorrow came, Su Wan had said "the exhibition stand in the studio collapsed, I can’t fix it alone," and he’d stayed anyway.

When he finally did come home, Song Xiaoran hadn’t accused him. She’d just brought out warm porridge: "You’ve lost weight—drink more." She’d packed his suitcase, putting his dirty clothes in the laundry basket. When she found an art studio ticket in his suit pocket, she’d only smiled and said "Ms. Su’s art exhibition—should we take Le Le to see it?"

Lin Yan clutched the ticket, his throat constricting. Looking at Song Xiaoran’s gentle profile, at the family photo hanging on the living room wall (Le Le sitting in the middle, him and Song Xiaoran on either side, smiling happily), he suddenly felt like a despicable thief—stealing Song Xiaoran’s youth, Le Le’s companionship, the warmth of this family, only to lavish them all on someone else.

And yet, the next time Su Wan called, he’d still go. Su Wan knew his weakness—she never said "divorce your wife," only "I just want you to stay with me sometimes"; she never mentioned Song Xiaoran in front of him, only "this is enough for me, I’m not greedy." This kind of "sensible" vulnerability was harder to resist than any demand—after all, this was the person he’d cherished in his heart for so many years, the only regret of his youth.

Lying on the sofa in Su Wan’s studio late at night, Lin Yan would watch the videos Song Xiaoran sent of Le Le: the little boy holding a paper covered in crudely drawn parasol leaves, his milky voice saying "Daddy come back soon, I’ll teach you to draw leaves!" He’d stare at the screen, tears slipping silently down his cheeks, telling himself over and over "this is the last time"—but when morning came, he’d still look into Su Wan’s eyes and say "I’ll stay with you today."

No one noticed this secret betrayal. Song Xiaoran still left the hallway lamp on for him, Grandma still waited for his braised pork, Le Le still anticipated his bedtime stories, and Su Wan still clung to him saying "only you understand me." Lin Yan was trapped in the gap between two worlds—on one side, a warm home heavy with guilt; on the other, an obsession that pulled him into darkness, hidden from the light. He knew he’d eventually fall, but he couldn’t help sliding further and further down toward that "long-held crush"—the only light he’d ever chased, even if it led straight to ruin.