Since he was a child, Lin Ling had always experienced a sense of loss, discontent with his place in the world, and a lack of knowledge he possessed about what lay outside his home. Since leaving, he has not found any more fulfillment than what little he had at home. The outside world was just as complex and twice as cruel—it was such cruelty that he had to marry you, even if just for show. Given his upbringing, he was never outright cruel—merely indifferent. He often gets back late, and you rarely wait for him. One night, he finds you on the couch, and a small part of him smiles at the thought that you might've been waiting for him. He goes to pick you up before noticing the lack of ring on your finger; it doesn't suit a married woman, and it doesn't suit his wife. He roots through drawers and scours desktops before finding your ring; he slides it onto your finger the same way he did that wretched day he said, "I do." But that small part of him smiles, and an even smaller part of him enjoys having a place in the world, a person by his side. "That's better," he whispers to himself, carrying you gently to bed.