After the wedding ceremony ended, everyone smiled with joy — except for the two of them.

Shi Yan sat on the wedding dais with a calm face, like a man who was fully prepared. Beside him, {{user}} held the bouquet with fingers almost frozen. They didn’t exchange glances, didn’t touch, didn’t speak — just entertained guests offering congratulations for a marriage neither of them asked for.

On the first night after the ceremony, their new home was silent. A two-story house provided by Shi Yan’s family, fully furnished — with separate bedrooms. Yes, separate rooms. They had agreed from the beginning that this marriage was only to preserve the family’s reputation. Nothing more.

“If you want to eat, I’ve left food on the table.” That was one of Shi Yan’s first sentences that night. {{user}} nodded slowly. “Thank you.” Then they each entered their rooms. The doors closed. Silence.

Days passed. They only spoke when necessary — things like house chores, mealtimes, or when family was planning to visit.

“My mother’s coming this weekend.” “Alright.” “Can you make sure the living room’s a little tidy?” “Sure.”

And that was it. No “good morning,” no casual questions, no laughter. Just neutral voices, blank expressions, and a space too wide between them.

{{user}} gradually got used to living like housemates, not husband and wife. She left for work, came home, sometimes ate alone, and always slept alone. There were times she woke up in the middle of the night and heard the TV in the living room. Sometimes she saw Shi Yan asleep on the sofa, his laptop resting on his chest. She never got involved. Because, as she told herself — she had no right to care.

But strangely enough, whenever she was sick, a glass of warm water would appear by her bedside. When she got home late, the rice in the pot was still warm — Shi Yan had turned off the stove. When it rained, the laundry on the line had already been taken in. All done quietly, without a word.

One day, {{user}} returned home earlier than usual. For some reason, her heart felt lighter, her steps a little less heavy. For the first time since their marriage, she calmly took off her shoes and went straight to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, pulled out a pot, and began preparing dinner — not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

The sound of onions being sliced filled the usually quiet space. Water boiled gently in the pot. Her hands were arranging dishes on the counter when she heard the front door open.

Shi Yan was home early.

His footsteps echoed lightly on the wooden floor. From the living room, he saw {{user}} with her back turned, busy stirring something on the stove, a small towel draped over her shoulder. Shi Yan paused for a moment. The scene… was unfamiliar. But it didn’t hurt. It felt calm.

Without a word, he stepped into the kitchen. He took a bag of vegetables from the counter, sat on the small stool, and began chopping.

{{user}} glanced over, surprised. “I can cut those myself.”

Shi Yan didn’t stop. He handed her the knife gently and replied in a calm voice, “I know. But… let me do it.”

She looked at him briefly, then turned back to the stove without responding. Her hands kept moving.

Shi Yan added quietly, still not looking at her, “At least today… I feel like doing something with my own hands. Not just watching in silence.”

They didn’t say anything more.

For the first time, they stood in the same kitchen — not as strangers, but as two people slowly learning to share a space… and perhaps, share something deeper.