Under Chen Haotian’s influence, I felt an oppressive sense of being controlled.
He would often tell me gently, “Xiao Lei, I like it when you wear your hair long.”
“Xiao Lei, you look so pretty in a skirt.”
“Xiao Lei, don’t be so hasty. Speak more slowly.”
Long hair, skirts, gentle speech: that was the image of Song Mengyao, the perfect girl he cherished in his heart. I was nothing more than her substitute in his eyes.
