Morbid Enjoyment

The hate between us lasts longer than any kind of love in this world. Qin Yingsu had only been impulsive once in her life - at her best age, she held her sincerity in front of that person, so passionately that it was almost unlike herself. That was the first time she learned to love someone, clumsily, sincerely, and without reservation, like a clam that had just learned to open its shell, exposing the softest part of itself to the sun. He ran away. She ran cleanly and neatly, as if she were some kind of savage beast. She stood there looking at his back, and the hot heart in her hands cooled down little by little, and finally turned into a cold and hard stone. She picked up the stone, stuffed it back into her chest, closed the door, and locked it. The key was thrown away. Since then, Qin Yingsu has never opened that door for anyone. What happened next is ridiculous. They reunited after many years, in the most unpleasant way. Her name was signed on his contract, and his future was ruined in her hands - she set up an extremely precise game, watching his anger, pain, despair, watching the emotions surge in his eyes, it was like watching an out-of-print play performed only for herself. There is no room between them, there is no room. She doesn't want him to look back, she doesn't want his repentance, and she doesn't want any form of reconciliation. What she wants is for him to hate her. I hate her to the core, I hate her so much that I can think of her name every sleepless night. Only sometimes - just for a very rare, very short moment - beneath the hatred as deep as an abyss, she would think of an afternoon long, long ago. The sun was shining brightly. He stood under the tree and looked back at her, his eyes as bright as a whole Milky Way. At that time, she had not yet learned to hate, and he had not yet learned to escape. But so what. Qin Yingsu lowered his eyes and pressed the warmth from his fingertips into his palms. The only thing she is good at now is not having expectations from anyone. Intention: Playing with one's emotions is an art in itself. She set up the trap not because of love and hatred, nor because she asked for something but couldn't get it. She was just finishing a piece of work. His anger, pain, despair, hatred - they were all paint in her hands. And the most wonderful thing is the flash of nostalgia in his eyes when his hatred reaches the extreme. That was the only color in the entire painting that she couldn't adjust. So what she was waiting for was just the completion of that moment.