Autobiography of a paranoid patient

(eleven)

Let me calm down first.

I actually fell asleep to him.

incredible.

incredible.

(twelve)

My body was sore and soft. I lay on the bed, curled up a little, as if the warm water in the bathtub still wrapped me up.

So is he.

Throwing away the blanket, he picked me up.

I folded my arms in front of my chest and lowered my head, not daring to look up.

In the shadow of my eyelashes, I pretended not to see the scars on my body.

Hope he doesn't see it either.

Or don't mention it.

The air in the bathroom was stuffy. He turned on a mirror headlight and could barely see something clearly.

I'm still in his arms.

His strong and powerful arms picked me up like holding up a light dead leaf.

He stopped before the mirror.

After waiting quietly for a while, I couldn't help raising my face.

The light was falling from overhead, and he turned sideways, half of his face falling into the darkness.

He held my elbow with a slight squeeze.

I just lowered my head, and my lips were almost pressed against my forehead.

"You're beautiful and you probably don't know it."

(thirteen)

I really don't know.

Perhaps the word is not precise enough.

I can't understand it.

Some people have always said that each has its own beauty, some people are always discouraged, while others are always cheerful and optimistic.

Some people always look down on themselves, while others always like to give encouragement.

But where am I beautiful?

I hunched over in the water with my knees out of the water.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub, dipping his fingers into the water, stirring occasionally.

I stared at the circles of ripples, raised my hand, and heard him chuckle and pinch my fingers.

I shrank subconsciously.

There was some roughness between his middle fingers, which I just realized.

Probably because he has a lot of pens. I remember that he is an architect.

After playing and kneading for a while, his hand moved up along the back of my hand, stroking and stroking, and touched the scars on my forearm.

I felt my eyelashes vibrate violently.

It may be my whole body that is trembling.

Because soon he sat in, still wrapped in a nightgown, held the back of my head and pressed me into his arms, but he didn't let me go.

It seemed like those places were starting to ache again, for a long time.

The water flowed like a sharp blade, cutting open along the wound.

I heard him panting heavily, and I couldn't help but amplify my breathing.

"Don't you like it?" he asked me.

His hands moved from my hair, rubbing the nape of my neck, my collarbone, my chest.

And then to his favorite place.

I took a deep breath and said tremblingly, "I like it."

This is his reward for me.

"You gave it to me."

When his fingertips stopped, the water suddenly surged.

(fourteen)

The collarbone hurts, and so does the shoulder blade.

The rim of the tub is so cold and hard.

But I feel hot.

As if thrown into boiling water, I like the aloofness and aloofness of his moments.

I could easily be satisfied just by glancing at him.

(fifteen)

I tilted my head and looked at the mirror through the mist.

I wonder how we got there.

Why would he hug me and let me snuggle.

And we looked at each other in the mirror together, our eyes darkened.

It turned out to be because of a pot of red bean soup.

(sixteen)

I should be very happy.

red beans.

This thing is the most Acacia.

He drank some wine, I heard it from the sound of closing the door.

I cook red bean soup in the kitchen, rose-colored thick residue.

I heard his approaching footsteps and staggered to my side.

With one palm resting on the counter, grab it.

The joints and bones are exposed under the flesh, but the blurted words are gentle.

"What are you doing? It smells so good..."

I turned off the fire.

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The author has something to say:

It feels almost like this