Chapter 1

It wasn’t until we swapped bodies that I realized, Julian didn't love me any less.

And it wasn’t until then that Julian realized, my arguments and interrogations were never mere tantrums.

Neither of us knew when those misunderstandings had begun to accumulate.

But now that the misunderstandings were cleared, could a broken mirror truly be mended?

……

The third month of the cold war.

Because of a charity gala that required the attendance of both husband and wife, Julian and I were sitting in the same space.

Outside the car window, the rain poured down like a waterfall. Inside the car, it was dead silent.

For a full twenty minutes, neither of us spoke a word.

Staring at the blurred neon lights outside the window, I was the first to speak, breaking the suffocating silence.

"The visa is approved. I’m leaving for France in a week. When do you want to divorce?"

Julian’s hand, gripping the steering wheel, jerked suddenly, and the car fishtailed slightly on the wet road.

He stabilized the wheel, his profile as cold and hard as a block of ice.

"Suit yourself. You’ve never asked for my opinion on anything anyway."

That single sentence precisely ignited the fuse that had been buried for three months.

"I never asked you?" I turned my head to look at him, my voice sharpening. "I asked you if you still wanted this marriage, and you were the one who wouldn't say a word!"

"Say what? What else is there to say? You suspect me of this and that every single day. Even when I explain, do you ever believe me?"

Julian’s tone was exceptionally icy within the confined space of the car, carrying the irritability of someone pushed into a corner.

I raised my voice: "Why do I suspect you? Overtime, social engagements, business trips—every time you came home late, it had something to do with Selina!"

"Last Wednesday, you said you were in a meeting at the company, but your car was parked downstairs at the Ritz-Carlton for three whole hours!"

"Julian, do you dare say there’s nothing between you and Selina? Do you think I don’t know anything?"

"That was—" he started to explain again.

But I cut him off: "You don't need to explain! I’ve heard your explanations countless times already."

"Every time they are airtight, every time they are flawless. Julian, don’t you think such perfect explanations sound just like reading from a script?"

Julian slammed on the brakes, the screech of tires against the pavement piercing through the curtain of rain.

The car came to a stop on the side of the road, splashing up puddles of water.

"So what? So that gives you the right to go through my phone, check my schedule, and even hire someone to follow me?"

His voice was squeezed through his teeth: "Clara, I am your husband, not your prisoner!"

A deathly silence followed.

Only the mechanical sound of the windshield wipers swaying back and forth and the rhythmic drumming of the downpour on the car roof remained.

Julian took a deep breath and reached up to rub his brow: "Clara, what exactly do you want from me?"

"Selina is my college classmate and now a representative for a partner. Every email and every phone call between us, I’ve let you check."

"And when you find nothing, you get even angrier, thinking I’ve hidden it too well, assuming I must have cheated even though you have no evidence."

"But have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, I really didn't do anything?"

I opened my mouth, but my throat felt blocked by something, and I couldn't get the words out.

Because the last time I chose to believe him, I turned around and found a note in his suit pocket handwritten by Selina—"Julian, thank you for last night. Selina."

Those words were seared into my mind like a hot iron; I could never forget them.

I closed my eyes, my voice as light as a cloud.

"Julian, do you still love me?"

The silence in the car descended again, heavier and more crushing than before.

He didn't answer. That was the answer.

I didn’t understand how we had reached this point.

The four-year-old Julian would break his favorite lollipop in half and stuff the bigger piece into my mouth.

The eight-year-old Julian would get beaten black and blue for my sake, yet still grin at me and say, "It doesn't hurt."

The twelve-year-old Julian would ride his bike across half the city to buy me candied hawthorns just because I mentioned I wanted some.

The sixteen-year-old Julian would intentionally run behind me during gym class, saying, "I’m behind you to block the wind."

The eighteen-year-old Julian would hold a wilted daisy, his ears bright red, and ask me, "Could you try to like me back?"

The twenty-two-year-old Julian would take my hand at our wedding and say, "Every little thing about you is my top priority."

—But the thirty-year-old him, sitting in this downpour, could no longer bring himself to say he loved me.

I opened my eyes; my lids were dry and aching.

"Forget the gala." My voice was calm, even to my own ears. "I'm tired."

I reached out to pull the car door open.

Just as the door cracked open, cold wind mixed with rain poured in, instantly wetting the back of my hand.

Julian paused, then instinctively reached out and gripped my wrist.

"Clara!"

He didn't finish his sentence—"Bang!"

An out-of-control truck slammed into us at the turn, the massive sound of the collision exploding in the rainy night.

……

When I woke up, my throat was parched and agonizingly painful.

I instinctively lifted my hand to rub my eyes, but in the next second, I froze as I saw my hand—

Slender, defined knuckles, wearing a men's wedding band on the ring finger.

I knew it all too well; this was Julian’s hand.

I looked up at the mirror opposite me—the face staring back was angular and sharp, with defined brows, starry eyes, and thin lips pressed tightly together.

It was Julian’s face.

My brain went blank for a moment.

Chapter 2

The next second, there was movement from the bed next to mine.

I turned to look and saw my own face.

"Julian?" My voice trembled.

That "me" widened her eyes, her lips trembling slightly: "Clara?"

The voice was my own, but the tone was unmistakably Julian’s.

Julian and I had swapped bodies!

The thought struck my mind like a bolt of lightning, leaving me stiff all over, even forgetting to breathe.

How could this happen?

We both remained silent, our eyes filled with disbelief and a sense of absurdity toward the situation.

Finally, it was Julian who spoke first: "Are you... does your wound hurt?"

Not "How did I end up like this," not "What the hell is going on," not "Call the doctor."

But "Does your wound hurt?"

I suddenly felt a sting in my nose, lowered my eyes, and shook my head: "It’s okay... what about you?"

He glanced down at the graze on his left arm—my left arm—where the color of iodine was faintly visible beneath the gauze.

"It doesn't hurt," he said.

Then he looked up, watching me intently.

Not looking at "Julian’s body," but looking at me.

His gaze pierced through his own physical form and found me accurately.

"Clara."

"Yeah."

"Focus on recovering," he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "Once the injuries heal, we’ll figure out a way to switch back."

I nodded.

After all, there was no other way.

The hospital room fell quiet again.

Just then, the sound of high heels echoed in the hallway, drawing nearer.

The door was pushed open.

A woman walked in, her gaze landing on me immediately.

"Julian." It was Selina.

I had seen her before—in photos, in my imagination, and in the scenes of my countless nightmares.

For the first time, she was standing right in front of me.

My heart skipped a beat—not because Selina was beautiful, but because Julian’s name, spoken by her, carried an uncomfortable level of intimacy.

I didn't say anything.

On the bed next to me, Julian spoke.

He used my voice, but the tone was as cold as a winter wind: "Why are you here?"

Selina paused, her gaze shifting over, as if she had just noticed there was another person in the room.

A polished, polite smile quickly formed on her face: "Sister-in-law, I heard Julian was in a car accident. I was worried, so I came to check on you. Is everyone alright?"

Sister-in-law.

That word, coming from her, was courteous, polite, and beyond reproach.

Yet I found it incredibly jarring.

"We're fine," Julian replied curtly, his voice devoid of any extra emotion.

Selina’s gaze turned back to me.

She sat down by the bedside and took a box from her bag, placing it on the nightstand: "Julian, I asked someone to bring these liver protection pills from abroad. You have so many social engagements; they’ll be good for your health."