Needed By Him

What is a dream? Some say dreams are fleeting thoughts that visit us while we sleep, mere shadows of our minds. Others believe dreams are hopes for the future, aspirations born from our deepest desires. And yet, there are those who insist that dreams are reflections of our most hidden fears, where anxieties and traumas take shape. For Qin Ruo, dreams were none of these things. Instead, they felt like inescapable nightmares—dark, twisted fragments that haunted her every night. Her dreams were relentless, creeping into her subconscious like a shadow she could never outrun. Each time she closed her eyes, they grew more vivid, gripping her with suffocating terror. She dreaded sleep, not because of exhaustion, but because of what awaited her in the depths of her unconscious mind. Qin Ruo wasn’t supposed to be troubled. As the daughter of Prime Minister Qu Fe De, she lived a life most could only envy—surrounded by luxury, good food, and every material comfort she could need. Outwardly, her life seemed perfect. Her education was the finest; she was a talented and cultivated young lady, admired for her grace and intelligence. She was often regarded as a flawless, unattainable beauty. But beauty, Qin Ruo had learned, could be a kind of armor. Qin Ruo’s beauty wasn’t the warm, sweet kind that made others smile. It was a cold, ethereal beauty that seemed to exist beyond the ordinary world. Her skin was smooth and pale, like the finest porcelain, almost translucent under the sunlight. People would glance at her, then look away quickly, as if afraid to linger. Her features were delicate yet distant—so perfect that people often felt unworthy to gaze at her for too long. Her long black hair flowed like a waterfall of silk, framing her face in stark contrast to her pale complexion. Her eyes, dark and mysterious, seemed to hold a depth that others could never reach, and the more they tried, the further away she became. She was not the type of girl people would describe as "cute" or "pretty." To see her was to feel awe, not desire. There was no possessiveness in the way people admired Qin Ruo; instead, it was a quiet adoration, as if they feared she might break under the weight of worldly attachments. Yet even in their reverence, they kept their distance. And the more they revered her, the lonelier she became. But beneath that perfect, untouchable exterior lay a soul weighed down by isolation and sorrow. Her perfection was, in many ways, a prison. Her hands, though worn from hours of practice, never callused. The skin remained smooth and unblemished, as though untouched by the strain she put them through daily. Perfect on the outside, and yet, beneath the surface, the weight of her perfection pressed down on her heart, heavy and suffocating. She was like a flower made of ice—beautiful, fragile, and cold. Growing up in this silent, empty household had shaped Qin Ruo into someone distant and reserved. Her mother, Yi Xu, had died giving birth to her, a fact that haunted Qin Ruo deeply. Though no one ever spoke of it, Qin Ruo often felt the shadow of her mother’s death hanging over her, like a silent accusation. Her brothers were distant, her father busy, and the love that should have filled her life seemed nowhere to be found. She had learned early on that her needs, her feelings, went unnoticed. In her quiet moments, she would sometimes wonder, Was it her fault? Had her birth brought misfortune? This inner turmoil turned Qin Ruo into a girl who kept to herself, always calm and composed. Tears, anger—these were luxuries she couldn’t afford. She never cried, never demanded attention, never spoke of her pain. She believed that if she could just be perfect enough, maybe then her family would notice her. Maybe they would see her efforts and smile, tell her she had done well. To that end, Qin Ruo threw herself into her studies. She practiced her embroidery with single-minded dedication, even though the needle often pricked her fingers, drawing blood. Her fingers ached, yet she pressed on, her hands moving mechanically, stitch by perfect stitch. “Even though my fingers bleed…” she whispered to herself, wiping the small droplets of crimson off the silk fabric, “I must continue.” Each stitch was perfect, every detail meticulously crafted, in hopes that her father might one day praise her work. She also spent countless hours practicing the guqin, her fingers often cramping from the tension of plucking the strings. The pain would shoot through her hands, but she would force herself to play, to create beautiful music in the hopes that it might reach her family. The strings felt like threads of fate, pulling taut under her fingertips, binding her to the life she couldn’t escape. “Even though my hands hurt…” she thought, “I must keep going.” Then came her calligraphy and painting lessons. The once smooth skin of her palm remained unblemished despite the rigorous hours spent holding a brush. She worked until her hand shook from exhaustion, determined to perfect every stroke, every line. “Even though my hand aches, I must not stop.” Yet no matter how perfect her work, her family never noticed. Her brothers were rarely home. Qu Zheng, the eldest, was too immersed in his academic achievements to notice his sister’s struggle. Qu Han, ever serious and methodical, rarely saw beyond the political issues occupying his mind. Qu Ming, who once cared the most, had now turned his heart toward the harshness of military life. Their lives moved forward without her. It was after her twelfth birthday that everything seemed to fall apart. Her family had not acknowledged the day. There was no celebration, no warmth. It was just another quiet day in the Qu household. For Qin Ruo, the day was more than her birthday; it marked the anniversary of her mother’s death, a haunting reminder that her existence was forever tied to that loss. To celebrate would feel like a betrayal of her mother’s memory, yet the silence that followed was equally unbearable. That night, after all had fallen quiet, the nightmare returned. The dream was always the same—dark, oppressive, and filled with faces she loved but could never reach. Qin Ruo tossed and turned in her bed, her small body drenched in sweat as she struggled to wake from the suffocating visions. Her limbs felt heavy, as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on her chest. In the dream, her family was always there—her father, her brothers—but no matter how much she reached out to them, they never turned to look at her. They walked away, fading into the darkness, leaving her behind. Suddenly, she awoke with a start, gasping for breath. Her heart raced as her hands frantically touched her body, as if to reassure herself that she was still there, still alive. “It’s okay… it’s just a dream,” she whispered, her voice shaking with fear. “I’m still here.” She pulled her knees to her chest, curling up into a tight ball, trying to shield herself from the crushing loneliness. The room was silent, yet the echoes of the dream clung to her like a heavy mist, refusing to fade. Why couldn’t she shake it? Why did it always feel so real? Tears began to well in her eyes, slipping down her pale cheeks. She wiped them away, but more came, as if all the sadness and frustration she kept hidden inside were now too much to contain. Finally, she gave up trying to stop them, letting the tears flow freely. She sat like that for hours, staring blankly at the floor, her small frame trembling in the quiet of the night. The next morning, Li Lei, her loyal servant, entered the room as usual, her heart heavy with worry. For months now, she had noticed the change in her young mistress. Qin Ruo had always been quiet, but now it was more than that. She was distant, hollow. “Young Miss, are you all right?” Li Lei asked softly, kneeling beside the bed where Qin Ruo sat, still as a statue. The girl did not respond at first, her eyes lost in a world of their own. Li Lei’s heart ached as she gently took Qin Ruo’s hands. They were cold and frail, yet miraculously, her skin was as smooth as the finest jade, untouched by the trials her hands had endured. “Young Miss, did you have another bad dream?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Qin Ruo finally stirred, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to sleep anymore, Li Lei... I’m scared of the dream.” Her words were fragile, as if speaking them might cause her to shatter. “Young Miss, you must rest,” Li Lei said, her voice trembling with worry. “If you don’t sleep, your health will suffer. Please, tell me what troubles you.” But Qin Ruo only shook her head. “It’s too late,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “No one can help me. Not even you.” Li Lei had known something was wrong ever since that fateful night on Qin Ruo’s twelfth birthday. She remembered hearing the desperate cries from her young mistress’s room. When she had rushed in, Qin Ruo had been in the throes of terror, sobbing uncontrollably, her usual calm demeanor completely broken. “Li Lei, help me,” Qin Ruo had cried, clinging to her servant. “What should I do? Everyone leaves me…” Li Lei had held her close, trying to soothe her, but Qin Ruo’s words had left a deep mark. “You’ll leave me too, won’t you? Just like everyone else.” Li Lei tried to speak to Minister Qu about his daughter’s condition, but her pleas went unheard. He was too consumed by matters of state—border disputes, refugees, and military supplies—to notice the quiet suffering of his youngest child. Her brothers, too, were distant, caught up in their own lives. They saw Qin Ruo as the obedient sister who caused no trouble. Qu Zheng and Qu Han were lost in their studies and responsibilities, while Qu Ming, training to become a soldier, was too far away—both physically and emotionally—to see her pain. None of them could see the perfect yet fragile girl slowly crumbling. In their eyes, Qin Ruo was flawless. But no one realized that her perfection was her greatest burden. She was a flower too beautiful for this world, destined to wither in the cold isolation of her own loneliness.