Running away from the Love-Brain

Cleaning Day

Behavioral psychology states that it takes 21 days to develop a habit.

Cui Xijin's back injury lasted for thirteen days.

This timeframe falls within the second phase of the cycle, meaning that with a little self-control, she could abandon all the habits she had formed during her recovery.

This includes, but is not limited to, her reliance on a wheelchair; the candies she casually pocketed after ordering takeout or shopping; and her instinctual search for signs of another person in her home upon waking—not for comfort, but to warn that woman against wandering around so casually in her space.

But that woman seems to refuse to listen.

She continues to move about freely in her house, even carelessly handling all her belongings. By the time Cui Xijin realizes what's happening, it's as if she's lost her memory, because that woman always blinks innocently and asserts that she had previously asked for her opinion. Yet Cui Xijin doesn't recall agreeing to any of it.

After her back healed, Cui Xijin fully returned to her pre-injury routine, commuting daily to Love Lost Street. One weekend, she resolved to do a thorough cleaning.

Even though a few people took turns caring for her during that time, her living space still bore signs of disarray, with several items that didn't belong in her home cluttering the place.

She decided to clear everything out.

On a sunny day, sunlight streamed in, and she dressed neatly. Spotting the beautiful caladium on the balcony, she remembered that the last spring rain felt like ages ago; it hadn't rained in Chengdu for quite a while.

She placed her cleaned wheelchair on the balcony, along with a washed transparent umbrella. The mango-colored paint on the umbrella had washed off significantly during the last rain. That evening when she returned, droplets still dripped from it, a half-transparent yellow. Cui Xijin had washed it twice, but plain water seemed ineffective, leaving behind some indelible yellow stains. No matter how many methods she tried, it remained like the cracks on an ancient bronze vessel—unyielding...

Unchanging.

Cui Xijin expressionlessly removed her mask and walked to the bathroom. She wiped the fog off the mirror and turned it on, revealing a hairdryer inside, its black cord tied with a pink ribbon into a bow.

She pressed her lips together.

Washing her hands, she untied the ribbon, crumpled it up, and intended to throw it in the trash, but the next moment, the black cord fell, weighed down by gravity, looking rather cumbersome.

She didn't throw the ribbon away.

Instead, she re-tied it.

Tying it once, she felt the bow wasn't quite right; twice, it didn't look pretty; and three times, she recalled someone shaking the bow in her hair while tying it and tilting her chin to explain—"There are many ways to tie a bow. For this type, a single-loop bow looks the best!"

Cui Xijin obsessively tied it many times, back and forth, forming the single-loop bow from her memory, carefully adjusting its curve, before finally letting go in resignation.

With a "bang," she closed the mirror tightly.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she noticed the Brazilian tortoise in the glass tank swimming contentedly. Remembering that she hadn't fed it yet that day, she walked over to prepare some tortoise food. However, the tortoise seemed completely unconcerned about the lack of food.

It must have eaten well in the past few days.

She fed the tortoise and caught a glimpse of the little snail house in the tank, resembling a turtle shell.