1 My brother gave me a diary in which he could see everything I wrote. In my first life, that diary was filled with my love for him, with all my depravity. He despised me, abandoned me, and as I stood on the ledge of a twenty-eighth-floor rooftop, he demanded I wish him a “happy wedding.” Reborn into this life, I’ve learned my lesson. The day I got the diary, I wrote: 【I hate my brother so much. I wish he would just disappear from my life.】 But later, my brother knelt before me, stripped bare. "Everyone else has a sister who loves them. I'm the only one who doesn't." "Stella," he begged, "can't you find it in your heart to feel just a little bit sorry for me?" … I can’t remember the last time my brother, Leo, smiled at me. I remember even less the last time he held me. The weight of the diary in my hands feels impossibly heavy. Leo is wearing a blue floral apron, cinched tight around his slender waist. He looks as though he could snap in two. "What, cat got your tongue?" he teases. "I know you like it, but don't…" His playful tone falters. Because I’ve launched myself at him, burying my face in his chest. My fingers clutch the fabric of his apron, still warm and smoky from the kitchen. I’m trembling. In my last life, at some point I can no longer pinpoint, my brother suddenly began to distance himself from me, to despise me. On the day of his wedding, I stood on the rooftop of a twenty-eight-story building. The moment I leaped, he shielded me with his own body. He shattered on the pavement before my eyes. As we fell, he had held me just like this, so tightly. Even the warmth of his body and the faint scent of cedar are the same. I’ve returned to ten years ago. It’s a miracle. Ten years ago, my brother isn’t dead. And he doesn’t yet know about the obsessive, twisted love I have for him. Just two hours ago, I was at my brother’s funeral. The woman who was supposed to be my “sister-in-law” was weeping hysterically. The moment she saw me in the memorial hall, she looked like she wanted to shove me into the coffin with him. "Stella, who else but you would have such a disgusting obsession with your own brother!" What kind of sister tries to kill herself on the day her brother is closest to happiness? That would be me. I couldn’t stand to see him happy, because the person standing beside him wasn’t me. She had thrown out the wish diary my brother gave me ten years ago. It was filled with every one of my vile thoughts. 【I love my brother so much. Can he stay with me forever?】 【Sometimes I wish my brother were blind, so his eyes would never hold another woman. Is that so wrong?】 【He’s starting to avoid me. I won’t allow it.】 【Just die! Everyone should just die!】 He gave me that diary ten years ago. From the moment I wrote the first word, he began to hate me, to avoid me, to resent me. But the one thing I could never understand was why. After so many years of loathing me, why did Leo abandon his own grand wedding to come find me? He was the only one who died in that fall. His skull shattered. He was always so composed, so immaculate. But when he ran up those twenty-eight flights of stairs, his hair was matted to his face with sweat. The moment he grabbed me, he whispered, "Stella, if there’s a next life, don’t do this again." I knew what he meant. If there’s a next life, don’t cross that line. Don’t let your love for me become something more than what a sister should feel. My old, stubborn self would never have agreed. But now, looking at my brother—alive, breathing, human enough to reach out and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, to gently scold me, "Crying again. Stella, what did I do in a past life to deserve you?"—I feel something shift. I push him away, turn, and close the door behind me. Tears fall freely, uncontrollably. I uncap the pen and write. 【I hate him. I hate my brother so much.】 【Can he just disappear from my life completely?】 I’m lying. I would rather never see my brother again for the rest of my life than watch him die so horribly on his wedding day. My brother was adopted. My parents brought him home from an orphanage. He wasn’t the child they had intended to choose. But I pointed at the gloomy boy in an apron, baking cookies by the oven. "Mom, Dad," I said, "I want him to be my brother." Leo was stunned. He had a limp. He didn't know how to say the right things to charm adults. His only handsome feature, his face, was hidden behind a curtain of long hair. He just stammered. My almost pathological fascination with him had already begun. Even when the director of the orphanage insisted he wasn’t the right child, I clung to his leg and refused to let go. "He is. He's beautiful." My parents couldn’t win against my stubbornness. They agreed to take him home for a "trial period." That’s how adults are. They weigh the pros and cons, hoping everything comes with a return policy. But my brother is a person, not a product. I would never let them send him back. In three months, I transformed him. I secretly slipped notes under his door with hints about my parents' preferences. I spoke the words he couldn't say, building him up in their eyes. By the time I was twelve, we finally looked like a real family of four. But our happiness was short-lived. My father was laid off, and my mother was scammed out of all our savings. One night, they turned on the gas. My brother, always the lightest sleeper, pulled me from my room just in time. My parents were gone. My brother became my father and my mother. After the funeral, he had only twenty dollars to his name. When I cried that I was hungry, he bought a can of peaches from a corner store. It was a big can. He held my hand and told me, "Stella, wait for me. I'll come back and we'll leave this place together." I waited for three days. Everyone told me he had abandoned me. They said he was heartless, that I shouldn’t wait. I didn’t believe them. When I was hungry, I ate the canned peaches. Three days later, my brother returned, walking through a gauntlet of cold, judgmental stares. His fingernails were black with coal dust. In his pocket was the fare for a train to the city. He lifted me onto his back. He limped, his steps unsteady, but he refused to put me down. After that, taking care of me became a part of his DNA. In my last life, the first wish I wrote in that diary was: 【I want my brother to be with me forever.】 He quit a high-paying job in City A without telling me. He bought a large apartment near my university and started his own business. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my favorite dishes were always on the table. And so was he. He was like a magical wishing tree. Whether I wanted newly released shoes and bags, or a 4.0 GPA for the semester, he always found a way to make it happen. I suspected. I even asked him. "Leo, do you sneak into my room and read my diary when I’m not here?" He just tweaked my ear and replied shamelessly. 2 "Who do you take me for? Can't it just be that your brother is your soulmate?" I was a freshman in college that year. Boys and girls, fresh out of their simple high school lives, were all falling in love. Someone cornered me once. "Stella, don't you want to date someone?" "All you ever talk about is your brother, your brother. Don't you get sick of it?" When Leo came to pick me up, I took the gift bag a boy who was pursuing me had offered and dangled it in front of him. "Leo," I asked, "do you think I should date him?" His hand on the steering wheel tightened. His face darkened. "That piece of trash thinks he’s good enough for you?" That night, I read a steamy romance novel. The heroine was pressed against the hood of a car, ravaged by the male lead. The face that appeared in my mind was my brother’s. My love for him was anything but pure. I wanted his love to be mine and mine alone. The diary was like a subtle, hidden metaphor. A thin veil over a truth about to be exposed. I remember that night, my brother made crispy sweet and sour pork. I believed that any wish made in the diary would come true. I was naive, and with a heart full of love, I wrote: 【I want to fall in love. With my brother.】 Outside my door, I heard the crash of a shattered bowl. Things spiraled out of my control. He started avoiding me. He started to despise me. For ten long years. I had noticed it, of course. When I wrote something like that, he wouldn't show up the next day. He had always prioritized me above everything else. But I never thought he would be so absolute. At the dinner table, my best friend Ruby, who he had asked to be my roommate, asked me softly, "Stella, did you and your brother have a fight?" "He bought a ticket for a red-eye flight to City A. He told me he'd be busy with work from now on and couldn't come back often, so he asked me to stay with you." My brother had fought tooth and nail to afford this apartment. But now, just to put distance between us, he was starting over in a new city. Sometimes I really wondered. He was willing to give up everything important in his life for me. So why couldn’t he just love me? But I will never forget the time in my last life when, emboldened by alcohol, I sat on his lap and swayed against him. "Brother," I’d whispered, "help me, please?" "I'll do anything. Anything at all." He had dragged me by the wrist and shoved me under a cold shower. He hadn’t been drinking. He wasn’t sick. He just stood there with me, under the freezing water, for what felt like hours. He cupped my face. "Are you sober now?" "Look at me, Stella. See who I am." Fueled by desperation, I’d laughed. "But you're the one I want, Brother." After that, my brother moved out. He never spent time alone with me again, not even for holidays. The fastest way to push him away was to tell him I hated him. The second fastest way was to tell him I loved him, that I was going crazy with it. Now, I’ve tried both. My relationship with my brother seems to be a dead end. But hating him seems to offer a longer-lasting existence in this life than loving him. My brother let me live on my own. But I think he overestimated me. He overestimated the body that had been so coddled under his care that it would collapse at the slightest breeze. When the thermometer spiked to 102 degrees, my vision blurred. I knocked over the glass of water on my nightstand. Ruby was out on a date with her boyfriend. I was home alone. My insides felt like they were on fire. On instinct, I fumbled for my phone and called my brother. It rang twice before he picked up. I heard him say my name. "Stella?" "Mhm," I managed. In my last life, after he moved out, he rarely answered my calls. When he did, it was usually just three short phrases. "Busy." "In a meeting." "I'll call you back." He had gotten very used to using those lines on me. I deserved it. But there were times when the medicine didn't work. I once ran to his office building in a downpour, clutching a can of peaches. He always worked late. Perhaps that was how he’d climbed to the top so quickly. He’d looked at me coldly, not even offering me an umbrella. He watched as I struggled to open the can. Rainwater dripped into the syrup. I held it up to him. "Leo," I said, "have some." He didn't take it. He pushed me, not hard, but enough to make me collapse onto the wet ground. Covered in mud, I held my arms out to him. "Brother," I pleaded, "look at me." "You used to love me most. And you loved canned peaches most." He didn't turn back. A black car pulled up in front of him. Its tires sent a spray of water arching through the air. When the silence returned, the ground was littered with scattered slices of peach. Burning with fever, I can’t tell if the sound outside my window is the rain from that night or if this is the present, before the final break with my brother. I mumble into the phone, my voice thick and slurred. "Leo, you finally decided to answer my call?" "You used to go out and buy me peach nectar every time I had a fever." "Leo, you're not home. I'm scared." On the other end of the line, I imagine his fingers tightening around his phone. Slowly, I lose my strength. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the pillow beside me, my breathing heavy. In my dream, it feels like the front door opens. It feels like my brother came back. When I open my eyes again, there are two cans of peach nectar on my nightstand. Ruby is looking at me with a pained expression. "Why didn't you tell me you had a fever?" My nose is so stuffy. I can't tell if the faint scent of cedar is in the air. Clutching a can, I ask Ruby, "Was my brother here?" She shakes her head instantly, frowning. "Are you delirious? He's in City A. By the time he bought peach nectar and brought it here, you'd have burned to a crisp." From City A to my home is a four-hour train ride, not counting travel time to and from the stations. And I had called him at three in the afternoon. It’s now seven. Even if he flew, he couldn’t have made it that fast. But I can't risk even that sliver of a possibility. I throw both cans into the trash can and wash my hands. My face is cold as I tell Ruby, "Good. I don't like canned peaches anymore anyway." "It’s a poor man's food. Too pathetic, too sweet." She just stares at me, stunned. Autumn in City B is long. To break free from the withdrawal symptoms of my separation from my brother, and to completely extinguish any desire to disturb his life again, I dress warmer than anyone else. I go to bed early and wake up early. I eat three meals a day on time. I will not get sick again. I will not be vulnerable again. I will not instinctively reach for my brother in moments of powerlessness. But I never expected the university to invite him back as a distinguished alumnus to give a speech. All freshmen are required to attend. I can't escape. He's on stage, seated in a chair that hides his limp. Questions, interviews—he answers them all fluently. Many in the audience are just staring at his face. The host guides him toward an interactive session. His dark eyes sweep silently across the thousands of seats below. I shouldn't think he's looking for me. I shouldn't think he'd be able to spot me in this crowd. But the girl who gets called on is sitting just in front of me. She clutches the microphone, her voice trembling with excitement. "Leo," she asks, "are you single?" The entire hall erupts. 3 My brother freezes for a moment, his gaze flickering over me. When I was eighteen, he had promised me. "If you ever want to date someone, you have to get my permission first, Brother." He had laughed at me then. "In that case, I'll probably have to be single for the rest of my life." On stage, he stands up. He takes a few steps, deliberately slow, his gait uneven. This is my brother. While nodding, he is also clearly telling everyone: I am flawed. I have a limp. It is a polite, distant refusal, one that lays his own imperfection bare. As if it doesn't hurt him at all. The girl in front of me sits down with a sigh, but the girl next to me grows even more excited. "Oh my god, don't you think that kind of beautiful, broken vulnerability is the most attractive thing ever?" she whispers. "I am definitely getting his number after this." Someone reminds her that I am Leo’s sister. A note is passed into my hand. "Come on, you wouldn't say no, right?" She tilts her chin confidently, a proud, radiant girl. "I mean, there aren't many girls as great as me out there," she says. "If your brother dates me, I'll treat him really well." It takes all my strength not to crumple the note and throw it away. In my last life, this girl wouldn’t have even had the chance to talk about my brother in front of me. My brother deserves the best in the world. But after a moment of consideration, I nod slowly. "My brother doesn't just add anyone. I'll take you to him later." "Great!" After all, the person standing by his side... It can be anyone but me. It has been almost three months since I last saw my brother. The auditorium is vast. As the crowd disperses, he stands quietly on the stage, waiting, his back straight. But I know his leg must be killing him. I find a pain-relief patch in my bag. Timing it perfectly, I lead the girl to him. "She has something to say to you." My brother looks down, his long lashes casting a shadow. He didn’t sleep well last night. But when he sees the patch in my hand, a faint smile touches his lips. "Go on." "Leo, you're single, and I'm single," the girl says, straight to the point, holding up her phone with a QR code. "Any interest in dating?" My brother's eyes look past her, to me. There's a stunned, cold emotion in his gaze. It reminds me of the time in my last life when I deliberately accepted a gift from another man in front of him. He finally speaks, his brow furrowed. "Is this what you want?" I dig my nails into my palm, look away, and nod. "Sure, why not? You're all alone anyway." "It would be good to have some..." Before I can finish, Leo takes out his phone, scans the girl's code, and walks away. The lights of the long corridor illuminate his hasty, almost comical retreat. One by one, the lights in the auditorium go out. The girl beside me is practically jumping with excitement. "Thank you so much! When I become your sister-in-law, I'll treat you to dinner." I am silent, my fists clenched. Because I heard the words "sister-in-law," and because... My brother is angry. I'm sure of it. What is he angry about? He has to find a girlfriend eventually. He can't be my brother forever. What is he angry about? My brother stops coming to see me completely. Even on the anniversary of our parents' deaths, all I ever see is the bouquet of flowers he leaves at their grave. No matter how early I go, hoping for even a glimpse of him, he is never there. Gifts for every holiday still arrive at my doorstep. Ruby stays over more and more often, becoming a sort of stand-in for "him." But in the dead of night, I still dream of those misty, haunted eyes. Of him shattering a glass, grabbing my collar, and demanding, "Stella, look at me! See who I am!" In my dreams, I am always silent. I know that if I speak, even the chance to see him in my dreams will be gone. He will slam the door and leave, again and again. ... The next time I see my brother is four years later. I think if he had known I would be at that party, he wouldn't have come. He has changed a lot. His limp is almost unnoticeable. Broad shoulders, long legs, the ends of his hair slightly curled. With a face so cold and indifferent, it’s hard not to stare. And his power in City A is even more captivating than his face. My supervisor during my internship pushes me towards him, whispering urgently, "Go on, offer him a toast. That's Mr. Leo Lin." "An intern like you might not get another chance to meet him for years." I lower my head, a sour feeling rising in my nose. It’s true. It takes a long time to see my brother now. My wine glass trembles, finally meeting the man's palm. My brother's Adam's apple bobs before he says, "Don't force her." He is different in public than he is with me. The authority he exudes is suffocating. So when my supervisor asks in surprise, "Do you know him?" I answer instantly, "No." The atmosphere in the private room chills. I see my brother raise an eyebrow at my words. He puts down the wine glass he had just lifted, and the already tense air practically freezes. Coincidentally, someone asks him, "Mr. Lin, I heard your sister is also studying in City B. Why didn't you bring her along?" My brother looks down, his dark gaze sweeping over me. The straight line of his knuckles seems to suddenly lose its strength. "She hates me," he says, his voice low and heavy. "She hates me very, very much." Sometimes, all it takes to break a person is a single look, a single sentence. I suspect if I stay in this room any longer, if I see that cold, shattered look in his eyes again, I might just rush over and kiss him, and explain everything. Tell him all those ugly words I wrote in the diary were lies. But in the end, I can't forget the black-and-white photo from his funeral. My fingernails dig into my palms. I stand up. "I'm going out for some fresh air." I have this habit of smoking whenever I think of my brother. I don't know when it started. It's as if the nicotine can numb me, let me live in a haze where I can pretend he loves me. A small point of fire is extinguished between someone's fingers. When I come to my senses, my brother is standing by the window. Four years. His features have matured, and his words have grown sharper. "Is this your idea of 'fresh air'?" I choke, my eyes instinctively drawn to his curled fingers. "Does it hurt?" He laughs, his thin lips twisting into a cold arc. "Don't we not know each other?" "Why would you care if I'm in pain?" He's still holding a grudge about what I said in the private room. I stammer an explanation. "I don't want to use your name to get ahead..." He cuts me off, his voice laced with irritation. "Got it. You still hate me." "But can I ask why?"
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