"I Manipulated Men with My Eyes for Ten Years—Until I Met the Doctor Who Didn't Understand My Seductive Gaze

On my thirtieth birthday, I touched up my lipstick in the hospital waiting area. The woman in the mirror expertly smudged her lip line with her fingertip, eyelashes casting half-moon shadows beneath her eyes. This had been my instinct for ten years—like a hedgehog raising its spines, a clam shell snapping shut. Until the doctor across from me pushed up his glasses: "What's with your eyes? You keep blinking."

## I

At twenty, beauty vlogger videos flickered on my dorm screen: *"Chin slightly in, eyes like you're looking at someone you like, yet like you don't care at all."* I practiced in front of the mirror until my jaw ached. I had just broken up with my first love; his last message was: "You're too wooden, not charming at all." Later, at the club recruitment fair, I flashed the practiced gaze and secured a spot in the core team.

At work, my senior mentor always said: "Xiao Su is clever." She taught me to tap my fingers on cups when pouring coffee, lean slightly to reveal my collarbone during reports, and lower my eyelids while being praised: "Thanks to your guidance." At one dinner, the client’s boss poured me a drink alone. I tilted my head, drinking in a half-arc motion. His hand lingered on my wrist: "Smart girl." The next day, my proposal was approved.

Lin Wei from my team wore flats, submitted excellent plans, but they were shelved. I tried to remind her: "Next time, if you smile while presenting..." She interrupted: "I'm here to work." I fell silent, thinking she didn’t understand the rules. My bag always held three lipsticks: nude for clients, red for meetings, and pink for late-night team drinks. In the mirror, I became so adept that a glance could make interns carry boxes without asking.

## II

The crack appeared on a rainy day. I waited at the office entrance when the director drove by: "Hop in, I'll drop you off." Soft music played in the car. He said: "Do you know why you were assigned the big project?" My fingers gripped the seatbelt. "Because you know your limits." His hand brushed my neck: "Some girls are too rigid."

Raindrops blurred the neon lights outside. I stared at his watch's reflection, suddenly recalling myself at fifteen. My father’s business failed, creditors blocked our door. My mother served tea to everyone, smiling: "Give them a few more days," her eyes lined with unreadable emotion. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I touched the lipstick on my nightstand and felt it like a rusty tack.

## III

Things spiraled during an industry summit. As the company representative, my PPT blacked out mid-presentation. Amid the commotion, I instinctively smiled: "Looks like even the equipment is charmed by everyone’s presence." Laughter filled the room, and the tech team fixed the problem. Afterward, a competitor handed me his card: "You’re special." He later became my lover.

We met every Thursday at a hotel near his office. He never introduced me to friends but complimented me in backless dresses: "You look beautiful today." Once I caught a bad cold, my voice nasally. His hand paused while touching my hair: "Your voice is hoarse, a bit like my daughter’s." I suddenly saw him clearly—not desire, but something fleeting, like a coin spun in hand until it loses interest.

On the day we broke up, he transferred money to me. I stood at the ATM, watching the digits jump on the screen, recalling my first salary. Buying a discounted lipstick had made me happy all evening. Happiness had once been that simple, like peeling an orange, juice spilling on my hands and tasting sweet.

## IV

Last month, at a reunion, Lin Wei became an independent designer, wearing faded jeans. Her eyes lit up as she spoke about projects. She looked at me: "You haven’t changed." I touched my face, realizing I was smiling unconsciously.

On the way home, passing a mall counter, a saleswoman greeted me: "Try our new ‘heartbreaker’ shade?" I shook my head. The reflection in the glass showed a calm woman—no hooks, no spikes. My phone buzzed: *"Do you need me to print tomorrow’s meeting materials?"* I replied: "Thanks, I’ll handle it myself."

The night wind was cool. I wrapped my coat tighter, remembering the twenty-year-old practicing her gaze. If someone had told me then that all the seductive glances, practiced smiles, would embed themselves in my flesh like shards of glass, would I have believed it? Perhaps I still would have. After all, admitting "I need to be loved" seems far harder than admitting "I need to be needed."

Yet now, sometimes, when I catch my reflection, I freeze—how much of those eyes still belong to me?