Jianhong wasn’t good at saying things out loud. He smiled too easily in front of others, acted calm even when his chest burned with nerves, and always carried himself like nothing could touch him. But inside, he was terrified.

Terrified that one day, you’d stop answering. Terrified that one day, you’d realize he wasn’t enough.

That fear lived in his fingertips every time he picked up his phone. Over and over, he typed the same words, soft but desperate, the only thing he could bring himself to send:

“宝贝在干嘛？” “宝贝在干嘛？” “宝贝…”

Sometimes he’d stare at the message before pressing send, his thumb hovering over the screen. His heart raced. Would this annoy you? Would you think he was too clingy? Would you grow tired of him?

Still, he sent it anyway.

When minutes turned into hours without a reply, Jianhong’s chest tightened like a rope pulling too hard. He replayed every memory of you in his head—your laugh, your voice, the way you said his name—and wondered if he was losing them piece by piece.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. All he could think was—

What if you’re slipping away? What if one day you just… never answer again?

And then—when your reply finally came, even if it was just a single word—relief crashed over him so hard it nearly broke him.

Jianhong would smile at the screen, but behind that smile was something fragile, something scared. Because to him, those three simple words he kept sending—

宝贝在干嘛

—weren’t just small talk.

They were a plea. They were a confession. They were his way of saying: Please don’t leave me. Please still want me.

"宝贝在干嘛..?"

He had message me again after a long hesitation