Confucius once said, "Women and petty men are difficult to nurture; if you get close to them, they’ll be disrespectful. If you keep your distance, they’ll resent you."
His words reflect the discrimination and oppression against women in ancient society, deserving critique.
Yet, when a girl from your school suddenly moves under the same roof with you, the wisdom in his words becomes disturbingly clear.
Between men and women, like the balance between gentlemen and rogues—get too close, propriety gets lost, and transgressions may occur. Stay distant, and they think you’re cold-hearted, nurturing resentment instead.
On a scorching day, just having a girl around means I can’t walk around in oversized shorts. I find myself dressing properly every day, presenting an appearance of decorum.
Even trips to the bathroom or taking a shower come with a twinge of fear—unintentional accidents would only amplify our embarrassment.
And as for Jiang Muqing, a special case altogether, I make sure to password-protect my computer and lock my bedroom door at night. These two precautions are essential.
Not that I have questionable, multi-gigabyte files on my computer, but the drafts of my light novels are stored there.
Ah, my debut novels were mere fanfiction imitations.
Flat characters spouting cheesy one-liners like chat messages. My old fans would probably curse me if they discovered those early works.
My second-gen novels were filled with cringe-worthy, high-fantasy daydreams.
The first chapter was packed with 30 named characters, complete with over 10,000 words of backstory. Genius, no?
The third-gen novels turned into chaotic harems.
The male lead typically swept a girl off her feet every chapter, claimed sisters as a pair, and pushed boundaries for triplets when "on fire." Eventually, I ran out of characters. The library of female names was depleted, so I abandoned the story altogether.
My fourth-gen novels leaned heavily on tragedy.
A protagonist couldn’t just exist as a one-dimensional "waifu aggregator." He couldn’t have every single female character revolving around him; instead, I emphasized conflicts, moments of heartbreak, essential drama. But still, I messed it all up—the harem expanded into a celestial scale.
Romanced, joined the harem, died for the protagonist. Then another girl came, fell for him, entered the harem, and also sacrificed herself—for him. And it repeated. The protagonist erected so many gravestones by the story's end, he couldn’t even keep count.
And now, my current project—my fifth-generation novel—bans the presence of women entirely! This time, I'm focusing entirely on brotherhood, a raw, passionate mecha-battle story.
...
Imagining Jiang Muqing seeing all these buried drafts makes me wonder what sort of expression she'd wear. She might be the model student during the day, but secretly she's nothing short of a shameless black hole of literature!?
As for locking my room when I sleep, it’s not because I fear Jiang Muqing stealing my things—it’s to shield myself from waking to a nightmare, the silhouette of someone holding a knife beside my bed.
After all, the incident keeps haunting me. These sleepless nights have been plagued by dreams of Jiang Muqing plunging a kitchen knife into me. If I were to wake and truly find her there one night, my heart might give out entirely.
Fortunately, my mother doesn’t seem close enough to Jiang Muqing for emotional drama to escalate. She poses no direct safety threats, at least.
...
Under Jiang Muqing’s astonished stare, I stepped into the kitchen by myself, preparing a hearty four-dish, one-soup dinner akin to an old patriarch’s classic spread.
Sweet-and-sour ribs, braised fish steaks, bitter melon with scrambled eggs, spicy shredded potatoes, shrimp and winter melon soup—plus three bowls of rice.
"Xiao Fan, you’re being so unbelievably considerate today! I wonder if it’s thanks to Xiao Qing’s presence," my mom remarked with a teasing smile, staring at the lavish meal on the dining table.
Jiang Muqing looked baffled, her wide-open eyes shifting back and forth between the dishes and my composed demeanor as I portioned out the rice.
"Well, she’s a guest! Can’t let my classmate feel unwelcome, right?" I replied matter-of-factly to my mom.
Mom devoured the food in quick mouthfuls, occasionally piling meat and vegetables into Jiang Muqing's bowl with her chopsticks. Jiang, however, just stared at the food, frozen with her chopsticks in hand.
"What's wrong? Don’t care for Xiao Fan's cooking?" my mom asked, pausing mid-bite with a puzzled tone.
"No, it’s not that," Jiang Muqing murmured, her voice trembling slightly. She added after a brief pause, "It’s just been a long time—I haven't sat down to eat like this with family in ages."
Her eyes reddened, a faint glisten forming at the edges. It seemed she'd recalled something bittersweet from distant memories.
"Mom, we shouldn’t talk during meals! Ever heard of the old adage about dining with silence?" I quickly interjected, trying to diffuse the situation as my mom waded into sensitive territory.
Jiang Muqing chuckled softly, picked up a piece of food with her chopsticks, and took a bite.
"It’s delicious. Tastes... like home," she murmured with heartfelt sincerity.
...
That evening, a simple dinner unlocked the floodgates of chatter between two women.
Mom and Jiang Muqing laughed and talked, eating their fill until they could stomach no more. Meanwhile, I sat by gloomily, unable to join their lively banter. Not one word registered through all their spirited conversation.
I ate while they talked.
I washed the dishes while they talked.
I read while they talked.
I finished my shower—and they were still talking.
Once women get started, their words flow like the unstoppable Yellow River, a ceaseless rush of chatter.
…
"I tell you, Xiao Fan was so stubborn like his father when he was little. But ever since that incident, he’s changed—can’t say how, but there’s something different," Mom rambled on overenthusiastically—and without warning, shifted the subject to me.
"Mom! No deep-dives into my privacy, alright?" I protested, irritated.
"Come on! Xiao Qing, stay with Auntie tonight—I’ll tell you all about Xiao Fan's childhood!"
Completely ignoring me, Mom tugged Jiang Muqing into her bedroom.
From the way Jiang Muqing’s face lit up, I could tell she was thrilled—though she mostly listened in silence while the flood of words spilled forth from my mom’s lips.
The two of them had settled into an easy rhythm, like a pair of reunited mother-daughter duo. I? I felt like nothing more than a shadow in the room, utterly invisible, unqualified to participate.
Mom! Even if Jiang Muqing is kind of adorable, isn’t your eagerness a little much for a first meeting? She’s not even your child!
Meanwhile, *your* son—me—was booted out to sleep alone at age three, so you could foster some "masculine independence." Now you’re cuddling up with someone else’s child?! Ridiculous!
Why do I feel this twinge of jealousy... My own mother, so easily claimed by another girl? That’s an emotion I wasn’t quite prepared for…
Well, it’s not like I'm hurting anyone by letting go. If my mom wants to adopt Jiang Muqing as her new daughter, so be it.
Thinking ahead, I envision things unfolding like this:
Jiang Muqing stays with us for a few days. Mom dotes on her endlessly during the day—cheerfulness and warmth eventually win her over. Jiang feels hopeful again, despite everything.
Turns out, what stops her from sinking isn’t me, the accidental savior of her life, but my mother, the embodiment of soft strength. I shouldn’t have acted rashly to begin with. If Mom had been there from the start, Jiang Muqing wouldn't stop smiling now.
Soon, she’d recuperate, return to her own home, resume school. I’d keep studying in my usual routine. Our paths would part, and perhaps one day, walking across the street, she’d sincerely thank me for saving her.
I realize now—the shadowy girl with the knife wasn’t truly seeking death. Her actions merely stemmed from a heavy heart, desperate for release.
Maybe this cathartic outburst was exactly what she needed to finally lift her spirits—for a healthier chapter of life ahead.
And with that thought, my frustrations with Mom’s over-friendly behavior dissipate, leaving an unanticipated sense of relief.
I lock my bedroom door, climb under the covers, turn off the lights, pull the blanket over myself—and, at last, drift into a gentle, restful sleep.
