Barrage Strategy Guide
The night Lauren ended things with me, the comments swarming my vision went wild.
[Mess with her now, regret it forever! Karma’s coming for the male lead!]
[Our Lauren’s all tough shell with a soft center—she’s obviously crazy about you!]
[Shh, classic plot. How’s the guy supposed to grow without a major screw-up? Just wait till he’s begging on his knees to win her back.]
I watched the glass shards slice across the back of my hand, blood dripping onto the carpet.
“Anthony, are you quite finished?” Lauren’s voice was cold. “Is all this really necessary over some… misunderstanding?”
I looked at her, then at the smug man behind her—her junior, Ralph.
A misunderstanding?
I’d heard it myself: her laughing with a friend about how I was a free servant you could summon at will, treated worse than a dog.
And only moments ago, to defend Ralph, she’d hurled this very glass at me.
In that instant, my heart simply stopped.
Softly, I said, “Lauren. We’re done.”
…
Lauren and I had been together for five years.
Five years. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days.
I’d transformed from a rebellious rich kid into a nameless shadow by her side.
For her, I cut ties with my family, turned down offers from prestigious universities abroad, squeezed into a Beijing rental smaller than forty square meters, and took over every part of her life.
Groceries, cooking, laundry, cleaning—handling all her trivialities, even fending off her nagging editors.
And she was Lauren: the rising literary star, the genius writer.
“Anthony, where’s my coffee? Hand-ground, three parts sugar, seven parts milk, under eighty degrees—how many times do I have to tell you!” At six in the morning, Lauren’s irritated voice carried from the bedroom.
I immediately set down the breakfast I was preparing and went to wait on Her Highness.
[Mornings turn Lauren into a cute, grumpy kitten.]
[The male lead is so devoted! This is love—giving up everything to cook for your soulmate.]
Right on cue, the streaming comments scrolled past my vision, trying to sugarcoat this suffocating daily grind.
Three years ago, these bizarre comments had suddenly appeared before my eyes. Only I could see them.
They analyzed my relationship with Lauren endlessly, and their core message never changed: Lauren loved me deeply, and everything she did was an expression of that love.
At first, I believed it.
When she impatiently shoved away the hot water I offered, the comments would say, [Lauren’s just under a lot of writing pressure—she does care inside.] When she acted oblivious to everything I did, they claimed, [Real love is shown through actions, not words. She just isn’t good at expressing it.]
Guided by their “interpretations,” I forgave her again and again, inventing excuses for her coldness each time.
I thought I was the one person in the world who truly understood her.
Until I became a spineless yes-man, orbiting her and nothing else.
“Anthony, what’s wrong with this sweet and sour pork today?” At the table, Lauren took one bite and slammed her chopsticks down. “The meat’s too tough, the sauce is off—are you trying to sabotage my creative inspiration?”
I rushed to apologize. “Sorry—maybe the heat was off today. Should I make you something else?”
“Don’t bother. I’ve lost my appetite.” She shot me an icy look. “Have you been getting more careless lately? If you can’t even handle something as simple as cooking, what are you even good for?”
[Aha, she’s jealous! Lauren must have seen him chatting with the girl at the convenience store yesterday. This is her way of marking her territory!]
[A bestselling author staking her claim! We love to see it.]
I looked at the comments, then at her utterly unapologetic face, and felt a cold wave tighten my chest.
What was I good for?
I could queue at five a.m. to buy the soy milk she loved from that old shop.
I could drive three hundred kilometers overnight to a mountain in the next city because she “wanted to see snow,” nearly losing my fingers to frostbite.
I could recite the best passages from her books, offer ideas when she was stuck—and yet my name was forever absent from her acknowledgments.
I abandoned my major, my friends, my family, everything—just to be the man behind her success.
And in the end, all I earned was: “What are you even good for?”
Deep inside, something finally, quietly broke.
It’s never the final straw that breaks the camel’s back, but every single one that came before.
And Ralph’s arrival was the heaviest of them all.
A junior from Lauren’s literary circle, Ralph was a boy with delicate features and a tongue sweeter than honey. Under the guise of “study and exchange,” he soon became a regular visitor in our small home.
On his first visit, he unceremoniously took my spot on the couch and smiled. “Anthony, you’re such a good house-husband—taking such good care of Lauren. I’m thanking you on her behalf.”
*Wow, this junior is so considerate, immediately acknowledging the male lead’s efforts.*
*Now the male lead has a helper; they can take care of Lauren together from now on.*
The comment section buzzed with approval.
But in his earnest eyes, I caught a flicker of barely concealed disdain.
From that day on, my life grew more crowded. More suffocating.
Ralph always found an excuse to drop by. Sometimes to discuss a literary concept; other times with a dessert he’d “just happened to pass” and pick up. And Lauren was always all smiles for him.
“Junior, that idea is brilliant! Pure inspiration!”
“Ralph, you’re too kind, bringing me cake. Please, sit.”
That kind of gentleness, that patience—in five years, I’d never received it.
The real torture was Ralph’s constant, subtle provocations.
“Anthony, did you over-salt this soup?” He’d take a deliberate sip of the chicken broth I’d spent hours making, frown, and continue right in front of Lauren. “Her stomach is sensitive—she can’t handle much salt.”
And Lauren would immediately put down her spoon. “Anthony, how many times have I told you? Keep it light.”
I had no way to defend myself. I’d tasted that soup. The seasoning was perfect.
“Anthony, this coat looks a bit worn out, doesn’t it? It doesn’t really suit Lauren’s style.” He’d point at the new coat I’d bought, offering his critique with feigned innocence.
Lauren’s gaze would turn critical. The next day, the coat would end up in the donation bin.
*This junior really worries about Lauren every second—true love!*
*The male lead really needs to up his taste; he can’t keep holding Lauren back.*
The comment section hummed in harmony.
I felt like a man trapped under a glass bell jar, screaming my lungs out while everyone outside saw only perfect peace.
Then came the day I caught a bad cold. My head was splitting; I could barely get out of bed. I texted Lauren, hoping she’d come home early with some medicine.
Instead, I waited until late at night. Feverish, drifting in and out of consciousness, I finally heard her return—laughing and chatting with Ralph.
From the living room came the sounds of gaming, cheers, and Ralph’s exaggerated laughter. “You’re amazing, Lauren!”
Struggling up for water, I heard Lauren say to him, impatiently, “Ignore him. He’s a grown man—it’s just a cold. He won’t die. He always makes a big deal out of nothing and ruins my mood.”
Leaning against the doorframe, I felt a chill seep into my bones.
For the first time, the comment feed in my vision fell silent.
Then, one trembling line floated up.
*…Lauren, isn’t that a bit too much?*
It was quickly drowned out.
*Harsh words, soft heart! She probably said that so the junior wouldn’t worry!*
*Exactly! She’ll take care of him secretly later—that’s just her tsundere side!*
Looking at those self-deceiving words, I suddenly found it all laughable.
So it wasn’t only me who had been brainwashed.
