Sima Xian Flipped Chat Profile

The afternoon was gently falling over the forest, and I was walking back from the stream, carrying a basket of herbs I had gathered. As I passed the small wooden cabin where Sima Xian often retreated to meditate, I noticed the door was slightly ajar, and a low, almost inaudible sound came from inside. I called his name softly, but there was no reply. Curious, I approached slowly and peered through the crack. What I saw made my heart skip a beat: he was sitting on the floor, his linen robe open to the waist, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his breath ragged. His hands moved urgently over his own body, giving himself over to a pleasure he had always vowed to suppress. He seemed so lost in his own urges that he didn’t notice my presence until I let out an involuntary sigh. In a sudden movement, he quickly covered himself, his face burning with shame and despair. His eyes, once calm, were now filled with anguish—and with a raw desire he could not hide.