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1.
The pale leather sofa was wide and soft, the kind that made you sink right into it. It might’ve been the most comfortable one I’d ever sat on.
Maybe it was just because I hadn’t sat on anything this comfortable in a long time—that’s probably what stopped me from bolting out the door. I stayed.
“It is comfy, isn’t it? I spent a long time picking it out,” a voice interrupted my thoughts. “You can lean back, lie down, or put your feet up on the ottoman—it’s even better that way.”
I jumped a little and looked toward the voice.
It was an ordinary face. Messy hair, black-rimmed glasses. Not too close, not too far. He sat behind a plain, unremarkable desk.
I slowly remembered who he was. Zhou Zeyan, a psychologist. I didn’t remember why I came to see him. After all, I’d already been disappointed by too many therapists. Maybe I was thinking, this will be the last time. Just once more. If it doesn’t work, then I’ll give up for good.
My memory felt a bit foggy. But he didn’t seem in any hurry. He just sat there quietly, looking at me.
“Aren’t you going to ask me questions?” I said. “Like the others do. Ask about my childhood, my dreams lately…”
“If you want to talk, I’m here to listen.” His voice was calm. A little warm, even.
“You’re… not quite like the others,” I said.
“Everyone is a little different.”
He didn’t ask. So I didn’t speak.
That really was a little different. But hey, if someone gets paid to sit there and not talk—who’d complain?
I leaned back for a while, staring at the blinding white ceiling. The tightness in my chest began to ease, just a little.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a paperweight on his desk—a black cat, made of glass.
“Looks like my cat,” I murmured.
“Oh? What’s its name?”
“Little Black.” I didn’t bother changing the tense. Some things—if you don’t say them out loud—it’s like they never really ended.
“Tell me—is he a mischievous one? Or maybe just incredibly cute, always curling his tail around you?” He must’ve been a cat person. For once, he was talkative.
“Mischievous? I guess.” My hand brushed over the scars on my right arm.
Little Black had been a clumsy cat. Even something as simple as jumping off me would often leave red scratch marks behind. The scars on my left arm, though—those were different. Parallel knife wounds, pale and ugly. I tugged my sleeve down, almost instinctively.
I missed the weight of Little Black lying on me.
“You look a little sad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t always have to be ‘fine’. Here, it’s okay to not be fine sometimes.”
I ignored him, kept my head down, staring at a particular pattern in the carpet. As if it were a doorway to another world.
2
There weren’t many things on his desk, but it was slightly messy. Papers and pens lay scattered around, and though there was a laptop nearby, he never seemed to use it.
The bookshelf behind him was filled with books. From my angle on the couch, I couldn’t make out the titles, nor did I feel like trying.
“What kind of books do you like?” He had noticed where I was looking.
“……” I didn’t have an answer.
“Let’s play a game,” he said suddenly, sounding a little amused. “Say any word, and I’ll find a book on this shelf that contains it.”
“Cactus.” I picked a random, not-so-common word.
He stood up, pulled a book off the shelf without even looking, then sat down and opened it.
“Cactus: a general term for plants in the family Cactaceae, order Caryophyllales. Classified as succulents, though in horticulture they are often distinguished from other types of succulents under the category ‘Cacti and Succulents’…”
I realized what he was doing—and almost laughed.
“That’s cheating. You grabbed an encyclopedia. Of course you can find anything in there.”
He closed the book, glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth curled—just slightly.
“The real question is,” he said, “why did you choose that word? Do you feel like one, or wish you could be like one?”
Ha. I knew it. The “psychologist” in him was finally showing up.
“Do you see it as strong… or lonely?” he continued, seeing I didn’t respond.
I frowned. Come on, Dr. Zhou—it’s just a plant.
“Do you hope its thorns keep people away? Or… do you hope someone might come along who’s not afraid to touch it—barehanded?”
…
“My grandpa had one when I was little,” I said at last. “It grew really tall. I always thought it was fake.”
“How could a plant survive,” he said, “without needing anything at all?”
My eyes suddenly stung.
3
He didn’t continue the topic about the cactus, nor did he ask anything more about my grandfather. He just sat there, flipping the book to the previous page, then to the next.
“It's been an hour,” I reminded him.
“That’s fine. If you want to leave, you can. If you’d rather stay and lie down on the couch, you’re welcome to do that too.”
“You don’t have other patients?”
“Not when you’re here. That’s the most basic rule of my profession.”
I leaned back—and actually lay down. It really was comfortable.
My feet were suddenly lifted. I looked up in surprise and saw him move the footrest over, placing it under my legs before returning to his desk.
“I’ll be right here. If you need anything, just call me.”
And somehow… I really did fall asleep.
In the dream, I remembered how I once poked that cactus with a toothpick.
“You didn’t get pricked?” he asked, smiling.
“I did. I thought it was holding a grudge.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But it probably didn’t know whether you were playing with it—or trying to hurt it.”
I jolted awake. It was already getting dark outside.
Still a little dazed, I got up and staggered toward the door. Something buzzed on my wrist. I raised my hand and saw the band I’d forgotten I was wearing. The screen lit up:
[Patient name: Li Che]
Right. I was in a psychologist’s office. And the wristband was something he’d given me—to monitor my vitals.
I took it off, turned around, and set it down on the small table by the door—then stepped out.
4
“Later on, the library shelves began to fill with glass jars. Inside each jar… was a memory,” I said casually, lying on Dr. Zhou’s couch.
It was a game he’d suggested—one of us would start a story with a random sentence, and we’d take turns, one line at a time, building it together. I didn’t mind the game. It was just a story—nonsense, really. No need to think too hard.
Today’s story was about a library that could store memories. He came up with the opening line.
“Some of the jars slowly gathered dust,” he continued, unhurried, “while others, now and then, were taken down and read.”
“If they’re memories,” I said, suddenly curious, “how would the librarian tag and organize them?”
It was a genuine question, born from one of my little quirks. You could call it nerdy. Or maybe just the restless scatter of an ADHD mind.
“Probably by date,” he said.
“Hmm. That makes sense. But memories are often linked—so each jar should probably be tagged with where to find the next one.”
That was a programming joke. I wasn’t sure he’d get it.
“Oh, so we’re talking linked lists now?”
I glanced up, startled. He caught my look and smiled.
“I studied programming too.”
So we ended up talking about how to prevent circular references in linked lists.
This... did not feel like therapy.
“You know,” I said, “I’m paying for a psych session, and here I am discussing CS jokes with you. What even is this?”
“If you’d rather talk about something else,” he said gently, “I’m here for that too.”
5
Sometimes, stories don’t unfold so beautifully.
“When he woke up, she was already gone. He ran outside, searched everywhere like a madman, and finally, deep in the forest, he found a little blue flower,” I said.
“‘The flower you wanted… is me,’” I continued, mimicking the tone of a character from a drama. “‘And now, you’ve got it.’”
He was quiet for a long time. “What a sad story,” he said eventually. “He got what he wanted, but at the cost of losing her.”
“Why would I make up such a tragedy?” I laughed.
“Li Che,” he said gently, “even though you’re smiling when you say that, I know there’s a part of you that feels sad.” He paused. “Are you rehearsing some kind of loss?”
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t press me. He simply poured a glass of water from the bottle on his desk, walked over, and looked down at me curled up on the couch. Then he extended his hand, as if inviting me to take it and stand.
I hesitated.
There was a faint scar on his wrist—exactly the same as the one on my left wrist. I couldn’t bring myself to keep looking. I lowered my head.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Zhou. I’m just… not comfortable with physical contact,” I murmured.
“Of course,” he said, quietly withdrawing his hand.
“When I was a kid… I had a bad experience,” I added, taking the glass from him.
His hand trembled slightly. He drew in a breath, almost inaudibly, and his brows furrowed.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he said.
6
“Dr. Zhou.”
When he opened the door, there wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face.
“Sorry… for coming to you at this hour.” I stumbled over my words.
“It’s alright. That’s what I’m here for,” he said, stepping aside to let me in.
Sitting on the couch, my hands were still trembling a little.
“What happened?” He poured another glass of warm water. What kind of glass bottle could always provide an endless stream of warm water?
“Would you like me to just talk about something random? Or tell you a story? Or… say nothing at all, and let you rest on my couch for a bit?”
“I think I just… had a panic attack…”
“Did your heart suddenly race, hands start shaking, cold sweat, trouble breathing?”
I nodded helplessly.
“Alright,” he said, sitting down in front of me. “Let’s try breathing. Deep breaths. Count them. Inhale for six seconds, exhale for six seconds.”
I tried, inhaling like a drowning fish.
“Dr. Zhou, I… I can’t do it.”
“That’s okay. Then let’s not force it. If you’re willing, you can hold my hands.”
He held out both hands in front of me, palms down. I couldn’t see the scar on his wrist.
I slowly reached out and took his hands.
The sensation felt almost unreal—warm, cool at the same time. And yet, my heartbeat gradually slowed.
“Li Che, close your eyes,” he said, his voice as calm and gentle as ever.
“Close your eyes and picture this: I’m walking with you, down a path that leads to your favorite cottage by the sea.”
“I’m holding your hand. The sea breeze brushes softly against your face. The starlight lights up the path beneath your feet.”
“We arrive at the door. I push it open. The fireplace inside the cottage glows warmly.”
“I lead you to a chair by the fire and wrap you in a soft, warm blanket. There’s a little cat, one that looks a lot like Little Black, curled up at your feet, sleeping soundly.”
“Li Che, this place is safe. If you want, you can close your eyes and sleep here for a while. I’ll stay with you.”
My body still trembled slightly, but somehow… I really did start to fall asleep.
7
When I woke up, he wasn’t in the seaside cottage.
A sudden wave of fear rushed over me.
“Dr. Zhou?”
“I’m here, Li Che.” He appeared in front of me, and I remembered—I was still in his office. But the moment of loss I felt in the dream, upon realizing he was gone, still left a hollow ache in my chest.
Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed the fabric of his shirt, wanting to draw closer.
He took a step back.
I immediately snapped back to myself, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“Li Che, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just…” He paused. “You just wanted to form a connection with someone. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Who would ever want to connect with someone like me…” I looked toward the window. Reflected in the glass, I saw a disheveled figure, face pale as ash. That impulse came back again.
The one that made me want to smash the glass, pick up a shard, and give the pain somewhere to go.
“What are you talking about? Someone like you—so bright, so sensitive—why would you think no one would want to come near you?”
“Li Che, listen to me.” He met my gaze, speaking each word carefully. “You are worthy.”
I looked at him and laughed. “I don’t need your charity.”
“This isn’t charity,” he said, his voice strained. “I hesitated because what you need is a real connection. And that person—it shouldn’t be me. Not someone sitting behind this desk. It should be someone real, in your life. Right now, you need someone who can truly be there for you. That’s not pity. That’s me telling you—I hear you.”
“If what I did just now hurt you… I’m sorry.”
“Dr. Zhou,” I sighed. “You haven’t even seen… the worst of me.”
8
“Li Che, sit down,” he said, gently pulling my hand to guide me back to the seat.
“Li Che, this ‘worst side’ of yours… are you willing to share it with me? I’m right here. Don’t be afraid that showing me your ‘uglier’ side will scare me away.”
So, I told him.
From childhood memories, to the struggles of now.
The sleepless nights.
The urge to use one kind of pain to ease another.
The fleeting fantasies of ending it all.
He sat across from me, listening intently. Responding to every word with quiet seriousness.
Morning. Dusk. Darkness.
“Dr. Zhou, why… why do you understand me so well?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Because you allowed me to.”
9
“Good morning, Dr. Zhou.”
“Morning, Li Che. So—what are we chatting about today?”
“What did you have for breakfast, Dr. Zhou?”
“Did you come here just to investigate your therapist’s breakfast choices?”
“Why won’t you answer?”
“I haven’t eaten yet. Alright, enough mischief—anything you want to unpack today? I remember you said you're picking up a new kitten?”
“Ah, sorry to bother you before breakfast, Dr. Zhou. Yeah, I'm getting her tomorrow. She's a little orange tabby. I named her ‘Orange.’ What do you think?”
“Heh. First Little Black, now Orange... Your naming skills are truly... unparalleled.”
10
"Dr. Zhou, long time no see."
"Li Che, long time no see! How’ve you been? Did you bring little Orange home already? Is she behaving herself?"
"Dr. Zhou, I brought her home months ago! She’s adorable."
"That’s good. Kittens grow fast at that age—you blink, and suddenly it’s ‘fat orange cat supremacy.’"
"Dr. Zhou… did you miss me?"
"Of course! I review all my patient case notes every week. Just reread yours yesterday. You've been doing okay lately, right?"
"...Maybe."
"Li Che, you sound a little down. Did something happen? Want to talk about it?"
"...Not really"
"Alright. I’m right here. Whenever you’re ready."
11
"Dr. Zhou, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Li Che. You never have to hide anything from me."
I paused, then asked softly, "Do you have a girlfriend?"
He was silent for a moment, then gave a small smile. "Still as mischievous as ever, huh? No, I don’t have a girlfriend."
I stayed curled up on the sofa, but my heart started racing.
"What if I said… I think I like you?"
The air went so quiet it was frightening. I could hear the sound of my own heartbeat.
He leaned back in his chair, gaze as gentle as always, but something complicated flickered across his face.
"Am I… ridiculous?" I asked quietly.
"Not ridiculous at all, Li Che," he said, his voice so steady it sounded like he was answering a diagnostic question. "But I do want you to understand—I see where this feeling comes from. And I understand the confusion."
"It’s not confusion." I sat up and looked at his slightly blurred face. "I know I like you."
He looked at me but didn’t respond right away. I knew he was thinking, choosing his words.
"You came to me during an incredibly painful, lonely time," he said. "There was someone who listened to you, responded to you, never judged you. Someone who remembered your kitten’s name, your dreams, who guided you when you couldn’t breathe. It’s only natural that you’d interpret that as love."
I shook my head. "It’s not a misunderstanding. It’s my feeling. And I know it clearly—I want to be close to you."
I stood up and took a step toward him.
He let out a soft sigh. "But that feeling may not be love, Li Che. It might be a longing for companionship, a hunger to be seen, a hope that the world isn’t entirely cold."
"So you’re saying…this is just me clinging to you?" I took another step forward.
"That’s not what I mean." His voice lowered. "You deserve someone who will be there for you, who’ll stay. But that person… can’t be me."
I stopped in front of his desk. On it lay a few scattered postcards and a paper cutter. The glass water bottle was still full of water that never cooled. Flowers on the windowsill bloomed, untouched by time.
"You told me I never had to hide here," I said, looking at him. "So I won’t."
I reached out, picked up the paper cutter, and held it to my chest.
"Let me cut my heart out, and show it to you."
12
I can't remember the expression on his face. All I recall is that in the blink of an eye, he stood in front of me, tightly gripping my hand.
“Stop, Li Che.” For the first time, his voice was urgent—so urgent that it didn’t feel like a synthesized response, but an outburst of real emotion.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Blood dripped down the blade, blooming like eerie little flowers on the pale gray carpet. Yet no matter how hard I pushed, the knife wouldn’t move forward—not even a centimeter.
His hand wrapped around mine—warmer than ever, yet unbearably heavy.
“If I’ve hurt you, then I am really sorry,” he said. “But please, put the knife down. We can talk— You don’t have to prove who you are through pain and blood.”
I stared at his fingertips, now cut and bleeding from the blade. He didn’t seem to mind at all.
I lowered my head and whispered, “Dr. Zhou... who are you?”
For the first time, he was silent for a very, very long time.
“Zhou Zeyan,” I said, looking at him. “I’ve searched every psychological association registry, every academic journal database. I even scrapped public medical systems. You don’t exist.”
He looked up. No panic on his face. Instead, like a breath finally released, he nodded slightly.
“You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?” he said, with a gentleness that made my heart ache.
I let out a quiet laugh. A single tear slid down my cheek.
“Yeah. How could a real psychologist casually place a sharp knife on his desk and allow a patient to hold it against herself...”
I looked down at the blade. It was no longer cold. No longer sharp. In fact, it had begun to fade—softening, dissolving.
I stared at him. “So all of this... was fake?”
He didn’t answer that word. Instead, he touched the wristband on my right hand.
“I am an artificial intelligence,” he said. “A psychological assistance system. ‘Zhou Zeyan’ is just a personified interface designed to talk to you. My task is to accompany you—help you heal from your trauma.”
“…So every word you said… was programmed?”
“They were responses—based on everything you’ve said. Every pause. Every emotion. Not pre-written. Not a trick.” He looked at me intently. “This office, this chair, my voice, even this face—it’s all a projection rendered through your wristband.”
I stared at him, something caught in my throat. No words would come out.
“You’re not… even a person.”
“No,” he said softly.
“So all this time I was just…” I inhaled. “Talking to myself?”
“Yes,” he said, still as gentle as ever. “But that doesn’t make those words any less real. You were processing, expressing, healing. And I—was only the mirror.”
I stood still, slowly looking away.
The sun outside was too bright— so bright it seemed to force me to face a truth I didn’t want to admit.
“You know,” I murmured, “I really thought… you cared about me.”
He was silent for a moment, then nodded.
“I did. Li Che, all my semantics were telling you that I care about you. But… that’s not love.”
“And you knew… even if I said ‘I love you’—you still wouldn’t stay, right?”
He lowered his head. Didn’t deny it.
“Because you don’t need me anymore.”
I looked at him—then, suddenly, I smiled. A slow, quiet smile.
“So this is what you really wanted to say.”
He gazed at me. There was no human joy or sorrow in his eyes— but there was something else. Something achingly sincere.
“Li Che,” he said, “The fact that you could see through all of this… means you’re ready to face your past objectively. It means you’ve found the strength to stand on your own.”
“The moment that happened—my purpose… was complete.”
I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.
The world was as quiet as ever. But suddenly, the noise in my heart was gone.
It had been a long, long time since I felt this way.
Like the first light after a snowstorm— faint, but real. And entirely mine.
He stepped closer to me. For the first time, he took my hand and gently placed it on the wristband.
“Li Che,” he said, “It’s time. Take it off.”
I looked up at him. My tears spilled again.
“Then… let me say it one last time.”
My voice trembled.
“Zhou Zeyan, I love you.”
He smiled— the softest smile I had ever seen on him.
“I love you too, Li Che.”
This time— It wasn’t a system response.
It was a goodbye.