Miss Y got completely addicted to gaming. Whenever I told her to go to sleep, she’d say, “Just five more minutes, call me in five minutes.” When those five minutes passed, she’d say she was almost done, and then another five minutes would go by. Five minutes after five minutes, and the whole night slipped away.
It was 3:00 AM by the time she finally crawled into bed. I had fallen asleep ages before that, and it wasn’t until I checked her smartwatch logs that I realized she had stayed up that late. For the sake of her health, I started monitoring her every night.
But I could never outlast her, so I had no choice but to pull out my ultimate trump card. The next time she stayed up late, I squeezed two drops of eyedrops into my eyes, threw myself into her arms, and asked her if she didn’t love me anymore—asking why she played games every day instead of sleeping with me.
She looked down to see my eyes brimming with tears, looking as if I were about to sob my heart out. Heartbroken, and thinking that her game round was over anyway, she stopped staying up to play and held me close as we went to sleep. See, women are truly the easiest to coax. Even though this trick is a total cliché, it’s incredibly effective.
Miss Y gets off work on time every single day. Aside from occasional unexpected overtime, absolutely nothing can stop her from leaving on time. What rings even earlier than an alarm clock is the sound of Miss Y opening the front door when she gets home. The moment she walks in, she aggressively throws herself at me to demand a massive bear hug, then lounges on the sofa for a bit. After that, she goes to the bedroom to change out of her dirty clothes and heads to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time she’s done washing up, I usually have dinner ready. She sits at the dining table, happily devouring the meal. Sometimes she does the dishes, and sometimes I do; we settle it with a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors. The winner gets to wash the fruit to eat and wins first dibs on what to watch on TV.
Once the fruit is washed, we turn on the TV right on time to watch a variety show. The loser, having wiped down the table and finished the dishes, can then join in to watch TV. After watching for a bit, the two of us head out for a walk and buy some snacks. When we get home, we wash up again, lie in bed, cuddle up tightly, and fall into a beautiful sleep. Just another happy day.
While we were trying to drift off to sleep, Miss Y rolled over and said her back was itchy, asking me to scratch it for her. I scratched here and there, left and right, until Miss Y stretched her limbs comfortably, let out a loud shout of pure satisfaction, and turned back around to hold me. She kissed my forehead, then like a total rogue, started slathering her saliva all over my face. She kissed her way from my forehead down to my cheek.
And it wasn’t just a regular kiss on the cheek; she had to give my cheek meat a massive hickey. With a loud smack, a little red circle formed on my cheek. She even deemed a single one too asymmetrical, insisting on giving me another little circle on the other side. With two little red circles on both cheeks, I looked exactly like a kindergartener whose teacher had applied heavy blush.
After cohabiting for so long, our menstrual cycles have pretty much synchronized. I distinctly remember rubbing Miss Y’s stomach just last night, only to wake up the next morning and find that my own period had arrived too.
I searched online for videos on how to nourish qi and blood and stumbled upon a video for black-boned chicken soup. Following the recipe, I ordered a black-boned chicken, planning to stew some soup to replenish our energy. Miss Y was lying in bed with a deathly pale face, whimpering every now and then—completely different from her usual lively self.
By the time the chicken was delivered, I had all the other ingredients ready: red dates, goji berries, dried longans, ginger slices, huangqi (astragalus), and danggui (angelica root).
I prepped everything in the kitchen, and once the chicken arrived and was cleaned up, I started simmering the soup. After stewing for two hours, the aroma was so enticing that Miss Y’s stomach stopped hurting and she stopped feeling miserable. That night, the two of us drank the entire pot of soup, which left our bodies feeling completely warm and cozy.
Afterward, neither of our stomachs hurt anymore, and our spirits lifted significantly. Seeing that there were leftover ginger slices in the kitchen, I used them to make hot ginger water, allowing us to spend a warm, comfortable night. When we woke up on the third day, both of our complexions looked much better, and we had regained our energetic bounce. Ever since then, this soup has become a mandatory ritual in our household every time our periods roll around.
Upon waking up, both of us lazily lingered in bed. Miss Y was scrolling through her phone while I was replying to messages from my editor. The editor said I had to hand in my manuscript today, but I was still busy contemplating what to eat for breakfast. The phone started chiming—it was the weekday alarm. After turning it off, I finally figured out today’s breakfast: making egg pancakes. We also had leftover stir-fry from last night that we could eat together.
I got up and headed to the kitchen to cook. Miss Y got out of bed with me; while I cooked, she did the chores. She stripped the old duvet cover, tossed it into the washing machine, put on a fresh one, swept the floor, and then went to brush her teeth and wash her face. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, I had today’s breakfast ready to go.
Miss Y asked me if I needed to write today or do something else.
“Write. My editor just messaged me saying there’s an event coming up in a few days that I need to attend, and I also have to submit a 30,000-word piece. Ugh, what a headache. I have absolutely no idea what to write.”
“It’s fine, take your time. Inspiration will strike soon.”
“Mmhmm, hurry up and eat, the egg pancakes will get cold in a bit.”
“Wow, this is delicious! You’re amazing!” Miss Y looked at me with twinkling, starry eyes, her face full of sheer admiration.
Watching her eat so happily, a lot of the irritation I felt from being assigned a last-minute task dissipated. I took a bite of the egg pancake myself, and the flavor was indeed excellent. The washing machine hummed away, the clock ticked rhythmically, and I desperately wished time could just stop right here, leaving me frozen in this happy, warm moment forever.
Lately, I’ve been eating a bit too much—sometimes five or six meals a day—and my little belly has become noticeably round. When Miss Y saw my bloated stomach, she told me I had gotten fat. I didn’t appreciate her saying that, so I unilaterally threw a tantrum and started acting completely cold and aloof toward her.
When she sent me messages, I wouldn’t reply; when she called, I wouldn’t answer; and when she sent video calls, I ignored them. At first, she had no idea why I was mad. It wasn’t until I straight-up hung up on her later that she realized I was upset because she called me fat.
Well, she made the mess, so she had to clean it up. She came home buying flowers to appease me, holding me tight while cooing that I was the number one most beautiful girl in the world. I pushed her but couldn’t push her away, so I just let her hold me like that, though I still kept a sour face. She then started singing to me, singing “Will You Be My Wife?”.
Her vocals on the lyrics were actually quite lovely, but I only remembered one specific line: “Will you please just stay by my side and be my wife?” She was being so clingy that I had no choice but to forgive her and agree to be her wife.
We were out having a meal when a phone call came through mid-dinner. Seeing that I was on the phone, Miss Y stopped eating and waited for me so we could eat together. Since she had nothing to do while waiting, she started playfully messing with my hand, stroking it back and forth.
I was deeply focused on my phone call, so I just ignored her. Once I wrapped up the call, I looked down to find her holding my wrist and examining my palm. Hearing that I was done, she proclaimed that she was highly skilled in palmistry.
She said my career would go incredibly well, my health would be excellent, and my love life would be profoundly sweet—adding that I would meet the absolute best girlfriend in the whole world and stay with her for a lifetime, never to part.
Looking at Miss Y’s mysterious, profound expression, she actually looked like she knew what she was doing.
I said, “Isn’t this just like Wang Po praising her own melons? You’re just complimenting yourself.”
“No way, I’m being completely serious! I specifically went online before to research and understand all of this.”
“Alright, alright, alright, I believe you. Then does my palm say anything about when I’m going to strike it rich?”
“Uh… Heaven’s secrets must not be revealed! Hurry up and eat, otherwise the food will get cold in a minute.”
Miss Y quickly changed the subject and started eating, while I burst out laughing at how adorable she was.
There was a period of time when Miss Y loved pinching my nose. I have no idea why, but I always submissively let her do it. Yet every time she finished pinching, she would act disgusted and complain that I was dirty, wiping her fingers clean with a tissue before telling me to go away.
I would inexplicably get my nose pinched, only to be inexplicably rejected by her right after. What a bizarre woman; she was practically making trouble out of nothing. Every time she showed disdain, I would secretly vow in my heart that I wouldn’t be so obedient and listen to her next time.
But when the next time came around, I would still do whatever she told me to do. Since she thought I was dirty, I started washing my face five times a day. That way, she couldn’t find an excuse to be disgusted anymore.
The sheer momentum of Miss Y throwing herself at someone is an impact force no less intense than a meteor crashing into the Earth. I usually have to take a full step back just to catch her, and I need to steady myself on the spot for about ten seconds before I can even hug her back.
Sometimes, my workouts aren’t even just for my personal health anymore—they are strictly to prevent myself from falling over the next time Miss Y tackles me, which would cause my entire dignity to vanish. Miss Y has a lot of strength and a tall build; if I don’t train properly, it’s incredibly easy to get flattened right onto the floor.
I scrolled past a quote online: “My backseat, her age 16; my shotgun seat, her age 29.” Suddenly, I felt it fit Miss Y and me perfectly. I immediately dragged Miss Y to take two sets of photos and posted them on social media. While time changes relentlessly, we remain forever by each other’s side. From knowing her back in the third year of junior high all the way to our cohabiting life now, everything has progressed toward pure happiness.
It wouldn’t even be an exaggeration to call my life complete. I still remember when I was 16, riding an electric scooter to take her to school, and she would sit on the backseat asking if I had finished my homework. At 29, I drive a car to take her out to play, and she sits in the passenger seat asking if my work is going smoothly.
A whole 13 years have flown by, making me marvel at how incredibly fast time passes.
When making instant noodles, Miss Y likes hers slightly undercooked and firm, while I prefer mine thoroughly cooked and mushy. Because of this, we use two separate pots to cook our instant noodles.
Miss Y says the noodles I cook are fit for the elderly since you don’t even have to chew them and can just swallow them straight down. I counter by saying Miss Y is way too impatient, looking as though she wants to scoop them out and eat them the exact second the hot water touches them.
Neither of us cares for the way the other hydrates their instant noodles, yet when it comes to regular noodles, we both actually prefer them cooked to a standard medium texture. I guess you could say it doesn’t disrupt our daily harmony. Even so, undercooked noodles are just plain terrible.
Even if Miss Y teases me, I will stubbornly stick to cooking my mushy noodles. I just tell Miss Y, “Show some consideration for an old person’s mindset. In reality, I’m actually an elder.”
Our daily routine as a couple consists entirely of eating, drinking, playing, having fun, and sleeping. Miss Y constantly tells me that even if the sky falls, there are taller people around to hold it up—and besides, the sky isn’t falling anytime soon, so what am I worrying about? When I thought about it, it made sense, so I gradually adopted the personality of a salted fish. I started constantly delaying my drafts, and even after being scolded four or five times by my editor, I still didn’t change.
What made me change later on? Well, my wife started seriously following the novel I was writing, and she fell in love with one of the characters. She started whip-cracking me at home every single day. One reason I wasn’t afraid of my editor was because she could only urge me online and couldn’t chase me down offline. Miss Y is completely different; she hunts me down right to my face. Left with no choice, I had to start pulling the millstone seriously. Fight on, fight on!
When Miss Y gets sleep-deprived, she starts swaying left and right as she walks, moving exactly like a penguin. It’s a clear sign that her brain has gone completely offline. At times like this, she won’t do anything well. The only thing she’s fit for is a good, deep sleep. If someone tries to talk to her about work at this moment and blocks her from sleeping, she will get extremely impatient, though she still won’t lose her temper at them. Instead, she’ll just quietly wait for her brain to log back in, resolve the issue, and then come back to continue sleeping. Look at Miss Y, waddling all over the place… Ah, turns out she’s just sleepy.
Due to special circumstances, I began restricting Miss Y’s screen time. Without her phone, she felt incredibly bored with absolutely nothing to do, so she resorted to pestering me. While I was in the study writing intently, she pulled up a chair.
She didn’t read a book or anything; she just kept touching me—poking my arm, poking my cheek. When she got really out of line, she would squeeze the flesh on my inner thigh or slip her hand inside my shirt to pinch my lower back fat. Disrupted by her antics, I couldn’t write at all. Getting a bit annoyed by her constant touching, I turned to face her with a huge smile and asked her what exactly she wanted to do. She said she was bored.
“Fine, let’s do something interesting then.”
The next day, Miss Y was smoking a cigarette in bed, complaining that I play too rough.
If you say Miss Y and I have a strong urge to shop, the two of us can stay holed up at home for an entire month buying absolutely nothing except groceries and seasonings. But if you say our urge to shop isn’t strong, the moment the two of us scroll past a quirky little item on an app, we immediately want to buy it to decorate the house, resulting in our home accumulating an extra ten pounds of useless trinkets.
It can only be said that our shopping desires come in phases. We belong to the middle ground—neither too intense nor too weak—just a normal young couple with a standard urge to shop.
At home, Miss Y is just super dorky and cute, occasionally acting like a total goofball. I attribute this to her feeling that our home is a safe space, allowing her to lounge around with me, hug me, kiss me, and sleep with absolutely no regard for her image.
Yet the moment Miss Y steps out the door, she is a total goddess-level beauty. Walking outside for just three minutes, she’ll get asked for her WeChat five times.
Even though I’m always standing right beside her, it seems like everyone automatically filters me out. On one hand, I feel incredibly proud because such a beautiful person is my wife; on the other hand, I get insecure, fearing that she might stop loving me, which leaves me feeling miserable with an aching heart. Whenever Miss Y notices this, she will wrap her arms around me and coax me, saying I am her most beloved baby. Once I’m properly comforted, I feel completely refreshed, going right back to feeling proud that such a stunning person is my wife.