Chapter 9
The year Alex developed depression, he initially took to writing as a way to document his life, gradually growing passionate about literature. In the first couple of years, his drafts were frequently rejected by major newspapers, which criticized his work as lacking talent and inspiration. Alex fell into a slump, his depression worsening. I was the one who forced him to take breaks, traveling with him across the vast landscapes of our country, restoring
confidence. In his fourth year, he finally crafted a masterpiece that took the literary world by storm, hailed as a rising genius. But he only cared about literature, ignoring everything else. Besides managing his daily life, I had to juggle my own college coursework.
After creating three successful works in a row, he stopped. Inspiration ran dry. In that fateful private room conversation, he didn’t just say he was tired of me–he claimed he needed passion to create, that literature thrived on it, and that young girl brought the excitement he used to feel with “seven–years–ago Vivian,” with her youth, beauty, and
energy.
I replied coldly, “Alex, you don’t love me. You’re just acting out because your pride can’t handle that I’m no longer under your control. A person like you only loves themselves.” I continued, “How old are you now? Your grandfather has been holding down the family business for how long? How much longer do you think he can keep it together for you? When he’s gone, you’ll be left with nothing but spectators dividing up your family’s legacy. Do you think that’s fair to him?”
With every word, Alex’s face grew paler.
“And another thing–did you even know? Your grandfather’s health hasn’t been well for a long time. He sleeps only three or four hours a night and sometimes spends hours alone in his study, staring at your parents‘ photographs. His hair is so white it couldn’t be any whiter. Meanwhile, you go out drinking and partying with friends, enjoying their flattery. Does that make you happy? Honestly, it’s laughable. Do you realize most of their respect for you is because of your family background? Think about it.” With that, I turned and walked
away.
Winston followed closely, slipping his hand around mine.
“Are you angry?” he asked, playfully. “Want to hit me to blow off some steam? I can take it–just don’t stop wanting me.”
Chapter 9
His pitiful look was, admittedly, endearing! Trying to drive home the seriousness of fighting, I looked away and didn’t speak to him all the way home. Once there, he practically wore me out, leaving me barely able to move by the time we hit the bed.
He leaned down, kissing me softly, “Vivian, please, don’t be mad anymore, alright?”
I glared at him, my eyes misty with unshed tears. Choking up, I replied, “What if you got hurt in a fight? Can’t you dodge a bit?”
nowing he felt insecure, I took the initiative to reassure him. Tilting my head back, my eyes glinting with warmth, I whispered, “I love you the most. As long as you want me, I’ll never leave you–never.” His gaze darkened, beads of sweat from his forehead dripping
onto me.
“Yes, I’ll want you forever.”
Chapter 10
