“Mr. Su, visiting your mother again?” The nurse’s smile was gentle as she guided Su Qingci into the ward.
The word “again” was used with great politeness. In truth, Su Qingci rarely visited. His last trip had been early last year, in the dead of night, when the sanatorium director personally called to say Jiang Seru’s condition had deteriorated and family needed to come immediately.
Su Qingci’s “immediately” meant three days later.
The nurse added, “Mrs. Jiang has been doing remarkably well lately. She takes her medication without complaint and even asked to go out for sun exposure when the weather improved.”
As the door opened, the nurse’s smile broadened. “Look, she combed her own hair. Isn’t it lovely?”
The nursing home differed significantly from a psychiatric hospital, offering far more “humane” conditions. No iron bars, no restraints. The premium ward was spacious and comfortable, with bright windows and spotless surfaces.
Jiang Seru sat with her back to the door on the pristine white bed. Su Qingci could see her braiding her hair into a plait. Perhaps it was genetics—though middle-aged, not a single strand of gray marred her thick, jet-black hair. The braid looked especially lovely.
Jiang Seru had loved braids since her youth. On her, this style didn’t look old-fashioned at all; instead, it lent her an ethereal beauty that complemented her refined aura.
“Mom,” Su Qingci called softly.
The woman turned at the sound.
She was exceptionally beautiful, and Su Qingci had inherited most of her features.
His mother had once been a renowned guzheng virtuoso, radiating an artistic aura. She adored wearing cheongsams, her elegance tinged with an alluring, cool detachment. She had enjoyed immense fame, hailed by netizens as the “Liu Yifei of the guzheng world,” possessing an otherworldly beauty.
Then she went mad. She smashed her zither, chain-smoked mint-flavored cigarettes—the scent still made Su Qingci physically nauseous—and raved like a deranged woman, spewing venomous curses.
She would slap Su Qingci across the face, kick him viciously in the stomach, grab his hair and slam his head against the wall, all while screaming abuse.
After the beating and cursing, she would collapse like a machine finally broken, then cling to Su Qingci, wailing and crying, saying she was sorry, that Mom would never hit you again, that this was the last time.
As a child, Su Qingci feared her. As an adult, Su Qingci hated her.
“I don’t know you,” Jiang Seru declared, turning away to continue twisting her braids.
Su Qingci didn’t wait for eye contact. He walked up to Jiang Seru, pulled a chair over, sat down, and said, “I have a terminal illness.”
How strange. He hated her, yet he wanted to tell her about his illness.
“I’m not afraid of death. I’ve ‘died’ countless times since childhood. I just refuse to accept it. Why must my childhood be scarred beyond repair, my life a shambles, and my death unfulfilled?”
“I too am unwilling. After half a lifetime of striving, I still cannot have Pei Jingchen.”
“I don’t cling to life, but I can’t bear to part with him.”
Jiang Seru blinked her beautiful almond-shaped eyes.
“I can’t tell anyone else. Only you.” Su Qingci lowered his long legs and rose calmly. “I’ve said my piece.”
Jiang Seru smiled brightly: “Do you like it?”
Su Qingci said nothing and didn’t linger.
Jiang Seru gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, smiling with lowered eyes: “Xiao Ci, school should be letting out soon, right?”
*
Less than ten minutes after Su Qingci arrived home, Pei Jingchen returned.
Hearing the door unlock, Su Qingci, who was changing clothes, hastily pulled on a wool sweater and went to greet him at the door as usual: “You’re back.”
Pei Jingchen carried a red bag. Su Qingci asked, “Takeout?”
Though now known as “Mr. Pei,” his innate frugality remained unchanged, especially when it came to food. Even during his student days when peers prioritized appearances, he never hesitated to take leftovers home. After entering the workforce, he continued this practice after business meetings with CEOs and directors, steadfastly upholding the virtue of finishing one’s plate.
This quirk was another trait that deeply captivated Su Qingci.
“No,” Pei Jingchen instinctively handed the bag to Su Qingci. “A little Christmas gift.”
Su Qingci, who had reflexively accepted it, froze, a flushed look of flattered surprise spreading across his brow.
Pei Jingchen: “It’s almost Christmas. Everyone who dines here gets one when they leave.”
Su Qingci’s pale lips trembled slightly: “Is that so?”
What was he expecting? He never learned!
Su Qingci asked with concern, “How much did you drink?”
Pei Jingchen undid his tie as he replied, “Not much.”
Su Qingci still went to the kitchen to warm him a cup of milk. When he brought it over, Pei Jingchen casually picked up the red paper bag.
It didn’t matter. Even if it wasn’t a gift specifically meant for him, it was something Pei Jingchen had brought back. Even a card where “not even the inscription was written by Pei Jingchen himself” would be treasured and carefully stored.
Inside the bag was a paper box. Even through the wrapping, a sweet aroma wafted out. Su Qingci’s heart stirred. He unwrapped it to find, sure enough, a dessert.
A Christmas-themed mousse cake, red velvet flavor, with exquisite and beautiful decorations.
Su Qingci hadn’t eaten a single grain all day. His sluggish stomach finally realized it was hungry.
Sweet yet not cloying, cool to the touch, melting on the tongue—just as Pei Jingchen emerged from his shower, Su Qingci finished the last bite.
Pei Jingchen dried his hair with a towel while picking up his phone from the coffee table, casting an unassuming glance at Su Qingci.
Su Qingci felt instantly pricked, a tingling sensation spreading through his body. Even the sweet cake suddenly tasted cloying. “I didn’t look through your phone.”
Pei Jingchen’s expression remained impassive. “I know.”
Su Qingci reacted sharply. “You know, yet you still looked at me?”
Pei Jingchen: “Su Qingci.”
Su Qingci seethed inwardly. Was he being overly sensitive, or was Pei Jingchen trying to cover something up?
He admitted he was prone to jealousy, but he was certainly not the kind of controlling freak who had no boundaries and respected no one’s privacy.
He conceded he’d had the urge many times, but it had always remained just a thought—never acted upon. Was even thinking about it forbidden? Was fantasizing illegal?
Su Qingci felt utterly wronged. He accepted Pei Jingchen’s distrust due to his own troubled past, but he couldn’t tolerate Pei Jingchen’s baseless, malicious assumptions.
After all, he hadn’t done these things. What gave Pei Jingchen the right to jump to conclusions and speculate out of thin air?
Did he really seem so despicable in Pei Jingchen’s eyes? Had he become someone who could be blamed for any misdeed, no matter how unfounded?
Su Qingci flung the plastic fork into the trash bin with force. “You suspect I’d peek at your phone, yet you still leave it on the coffee table and go take a shower. What’s the meaning of that? Testing me on purpose?”
Pei Jingchen exhaled. “You’re overthinking it.”
Su Qingci laughed bitterly.
Pei Jingchen stepped closer, pointing to his own mouth. “I was looking at you because you have cream on your lips.”
Su Qingci froze, instinctively wiping his lips—sure enough, there was cream.
He didn’t know whether to believe Pei Jingchen’s explanation, but his midday words—“Make up a better story this time”—unfortunately came flooding back. A lump formed in his throat, a sharp ache of bitterness and pain.
Night deepened.
They slept on opposite sides of the bed, back to back.
Though lying in the same bed, mere inches apart, they might as well have been worlds apart.
Sleepless, Su Qingci stared blankly at the wall. After a long while, he cautiously turned his head to look at Pei Jingchen, unsure if he was asleep.
After calming down, Su Qingci felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
Living with someone sensitive and extreme must be exhausting, right? Especially when you “already despise this person”—every day feels like a year, every minute a torment.
Pei Jingchen was a good person, in every sense of the word.
That’s why Su Qingci could exploit his debt of gratitude with such brazen confidence.
During his sophomore year of high school, Pei Jingchen had been in a car accident. His rare blood type meant Su Qingci had donated blood to save his life.
As long as Su Qingci clung desperately to this leverage, the honorable Pei Jingchen would never be free.
Su Qingci felt a sharp pain in his heart, the bitter ache stinging his eyes until they burned.
He really was a bastard. No wonder he met such a miserable end.
He rolled onto his back, forcing deep breaths to quell the emotions threatening to drown him. Once he felt slightly better, he clung to Pei Jingchen from behind like a mayfly trapped in the deep sea desperately needing a piece of driftwood to save its life.
Truthfully, Su Qingci understood: making Pei Jingchen happy was simple—he just needed to let go. Give Pei Jingchen his freedom, and he would be happy, truly content.
Yet he stubbornly clung to wishful thinking, convinced there was still time, convinced he could bring Pei Jingchen joy and happiness.
Call it self-righteousness or selfishness. But letting go? He simply couldn’t do it.
Like a fish cannot live without water, Su Qingci couldn’t live without the air called “Pei Jingchen.”