They all share one thing in common— It's not that they don't want it, they just dare not say it. In marriage, in ambiguity, in front of the phone screen late at night, the body remembers more honestly than reason. This isn't an explicit book, yet it will make you suddenly afraid to turn the page at certain passages. Author ---- Xia Yi Xia Yi She likes to use words to capture the subtle flutters and deep emotions in everyday life. She believes that every flutter, every desire, is the most authentic existence in life. She excels at depicting the delicate psychology of love and freedom, desire and self-awakening. Her writing is warm and unpretentious, carrying the texture of life and subtle tension. Table of Contents That night, he didn't touch me. It's not that I don't love you, I just don't want to be needed anymore. She turned off the light, but woke up even more clearly. Between us, only our bodies are still honest. That message I shouldn't have replied to. He was too close, but I didn't back away. It wasn't cheating, it was waking up. For the first time, I longed for myself. Some desires don't need to be fulfilled. Before dawn, I am still me. Excerpt: That night, nothing that could be identified actually happened. No boundaries were crossed, no control was lost, no words that shouldn't have been said were uttered, and no touching left any trace. If someone asked, I could even say quite naturally: I just went to a friend's house for a chat, and then went home. But I know that night for me, it wasn't just that. We sat on the sofa in the living room, the TV was on, the volume was low, like a deliberately left background noise. The scenes shifted constantly, the characters delivering lines no one truly listened to. He sat beside me, the distance just right. Not intimate, nor deliberately politely distant. It was a dangerous distance; the slightest movement from either of them would alter the meaning of the entire night. I placed my hands on my lap, fingertips interlacing, telling myself to relax. His posture was natural, his shoulders slightly back, seemingly without any ulterior motives. But precisely because of this, I felt my unease even more acutely. I thought of past relationships. Those intimacys, initially warm, slowly became routine. They expected me to be a stable support, rarely asking about my true feelings. Over time, I began to lose sight of whether I genuinely wanted intimacy or was simply afraid of loneliness. That night, these thoughts I thought I had long since let go of quietly resurfaced. I suddenly realized that it had been a long time since I had looked at someone so intently, and a long time since I had clearly felt my own breath and heartbeat. He got up to go to the kitchen to get some water. I was left alone on the sofa, the spot behind me where he had just leaned against still warm. As he handed me the water, his fingertips accidentally brushed against my hand. Just for a moment. So brief that I didn't even have time to judge whether it was intentional. But in that instant, I suddenly became clear-headed. Not because of a flutter of excitement, but because of a sense of being reminded— Reminding me that I still had feelings, that my heartbeat could still change its rhythm at such a tiny touch.