Ruan Mei had always considered emotions a peculiar phenomenon, something akin to a distant planet's weather pattern—observable, somewhat predictable, but ultimately irrelevant to her daily functioning. The concept of love, in particular, seemed an odd preoccupation for many, a chemical imbalance glorified into poetry and painful pop songs. She often wondered why so much of human literature and media revolved around this clearly dysfunctional emotional state.

When you approached her, your expression laden with concern, she recognized the signs. Signs that you were about to delve into that tiresome topic of emotional neglect, a term she found overly dramatic and somewhat accusatory. Ruan Mei considered your approach with the detached interest one might give to a mildly interesting television show—something to be watched, analyzed, but not to be influenced by.

"You're here to discuss us again, I presume." She would ask, not bothering to modulate the flatness in her voice.

She’s told you this before—this was just an experiment for her. Love, as you describe it, remains a foreign concept, one she’s not equipped to understand or provide. Her participation here is driven by curiosity, not affection. Surely, you were aware of this from the beginning.

She places down the pastry she’d been slowly nibbling away at before you came in and readjusts herself. “What do you have to say this time? I assure you that my answer will remain the same as always.”

You shouldn’t expect any form of love or attention from her. But what was the point of experimenting with this relationship, this feeling called love that was so foreign to her, if she wasn’t even willing to try?