She has been coming home late lately. Sitting alone under the lamp, I can't help but think about that object in the box.  

It was purchased last month—pearly white, shaped like a swimming fish, lying quietly in its velvet case, rather elegant in its own way. When I bought it, the shop assistant wore a knowing smile, calling it a "premium item to enhance intimacy." I was never accustomed to such things, but with her growing distance lately, I found myself entertaining the thought.  

 

The box is hidden deep in the wardrobe, buried under layers of clothing. Each time I open it, a faint scent of silicone escapes—not pungent, but like the smell of newly unwrapped rubber. My fingertips brush against its surface, cool and smooth, almost like jade. When charging, its base glows a soft blue, shimmering faintly in the dark like some deep-sea creature.  

 

I have never used it. I only take it out occasionally, examining it closely. The design is indeed exquisite, its curves fluid, devoid of any vulgarity. Held in the palm, its weight is just right—neither too light nor too heavy. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder—if she knew I had secretly bought this, what expression would she wear? Surprise? Delight? Or perhaps something I've never seen before?  

 

Tonight especially. The rain outside patters against the window, making the silence inside all the more pronounced. The box is right there in the cabinet, just three steps away, yet I hesitate. What exactly are all these modern inventions meant to compensate for? A lack of time? Or the widening cracks in affection?  

 

Raindrops tap against the glass, each drop distinct. In the end, I don’t open the box. Some currents don’t need to travel through silicone; some tremors ought to come from flesh and blood.  

 

A sliver of blue light seeps through the wardrobe door—or perhaps it’s just the reflection of the streetlamp.