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墨書 Inktalez
I no longer understand you. You've changed.
He thought I was angry.
So he began to "console" me.
Not in the way one would console a child, but as someone who feels superior, thinking, "You're just too sensitive; I'll be lenient with you."
He started sending me messages, saying that he had spent too little time with me lately, which made me overthink. He promised to adjust his work schedule to spend more time with me.
He said, "I've read some psychology books; your current state is a 'Post-Traumatic Stress Reaction.' Don't be afraid, I will help you."
I didn't reply.
He continued, "You're unhappy because you're too anxious."
"You’re easily swept away by your emotions right now. I don’t blame you; I’ll come to take you home, okay?"
I let out a cold laugh.
His words were almost identical to those from before—gentle, considerate, logical.
The way he spoke felt like he was soothing a patient rather than respecting a person.
As I looked at the string of voice messages, a terrifying realization struck me:
He didn’t not care about me.
He simply had never truly "seen" me.
When I was sad, he called me overly sensitive;
when I resisted, he said I was impulsive;
when I questioned his control, he replied, "I'm just worried about you."
In his eyes, "me" was a troubled little creature that needed his training, guidance, and taming.
Not a person.
Not an adult who could say "no."
So, I put my phone down and got up to turn off the lights.
I let my thoughts settle in the darkness.
As long as I cut off contact and stop caring, I won't be affected anymore. But Cheng Jingyi has never relied on "contact" to gather information. He relies on "control."
That day, the department suddenly held a meeting, announcing that there would be a temporary reassignment next week, and someone was needed to go to the branch office for a short-term project. I wasn't a core employee and hadn't expressed any interest, yet my name was called.
Before I could react, my direct supervisor quietly summoned me to the office, looking conflicted as he said, "…Do you know manager Cheng? He's our new Investor."
My heart sank.
"He said you did quite well at your old company, that you’re quick and know how to handle things… Don’t worry, this project isn’t difficult; it’s an opportunity for you to shine."
I remained silent, feeling a sharp pain in my stomach.
Back at my desk, my phone lit up with a message—
[You’ve always wanted better development opportunities; I’m helping you.]
The sender was an Unknown Number.
But I knew who it was. He had started to "pursue" me. No, he thought this was called pursuing. He used his connections, bought shares, manipulated the reassignment, pushing me into a new cage with an air of "natural affection," then told me, "I’m doing this for your own good."
I didn’t reply. I stormed into my supervisor's office and rejected the project firmly: "I won’t accept this reassignment."
My supervisor looked a bit awkward: "Then you might need to consider your position here."
I replied, "I will think about it. Thank you."
After work, I stood at the entrance of the office building, the wind stinging my face.
I didn’t know if Cheng Jingyi was hiding in a car somewhere, nor did I know if he was waiting to see me "lower my head."
But this time, I wouldn’t be afraid anymore.
I took out my phone and dialed his "Unknown Number."
Once the call connected, I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
I simply said one thing:
"Go to hell."
Then I hung up.
That night, I wrote my resignation letter and packed up my things from the desk.
As I walked out of the office, the sky was already darkening.
But I had never felt so resolute.
What I wanted wasn’t a "high-paying position" or "better resources."
What I wanted was a life that I could choose for myself.
He couldn’t provide that, nor did he deserve to.
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