A Little Bird’s Growth Diary

I saw her ID photo in the backend of Illusory Dreams. Pale, frail. My first thought wasn’t, “This candidate meets the requirements,” but, “She shouldn’t have to get rained on anymore.” I put a mark on her and called it a rule. I fed her and called it training. When she cried, I held her and called it a master’s duty. I spent an entire autumn lying to myself. This was domestication, control, locking a soaked little bird in a safe cage. I was afraid my tenderness wouldn’t be enough, afraid she would leave, afraid I would lose control. Later, she took those things out of the cabinet, lifted my chin, and said, “You’ve held it in for so long. You poor thing, Master Xiaoxue.” She called me Master Xiaoxue. Those four words weren’t punishment. They were absolution. It turned out I’d never wanted to be a master. I just didn’t know how to be a lover. I sold myself. I signed fourteen names on the contract, thinking that what awaited me was... When she put a mark on me, she said, “This is my right to be gentle with you.” She made me tilt my head back and open my mouth to receive food, but never let me lower my head and accept charity. I thought I was just a pet. But in her diary, she wrote, “I didn’t fall in love with a patient. The person I love just got sick.” She spent an entire autumn leading me into this body. I spent a lifetime giving her my love. She cried. Her hands trembled in front of me as she tried to explain, her words stumbling over each other, panicked like a student stepping onstage for the first time. It was the first time she’d let me see her awkwardness laid bare. I fixed the word “master” and gave it back to her. Then she gave it back to me. I love her.