“And now? Am I no longer in your eyes, in your heart?”
Su Qingci jolted awake from his sleep, instinctively clutching his throat. It felt soft and empty, devoid of anything.
Those were Pei Jingchen’s words back then. How had he returned? It felt like holding a scorching hot branding iron in his mouth—unable to spit it out, unable to swallow it down, burning his throat raw until it bled and swelled.
It had been a perfect moment, a heaven-sent opportunity. All he needed to do was respond with a simple “Mm,” “Right,” or “Yes.” Even a silent nod would have sufficed. He could have ended it gracefully, severing any chance of Pei Jingchen bothering him again.
Of course, Su Qingci wasn’t secretly hoping Pei Jingchen would return. He could resolve to leave him, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t utter the words “I don’t love you.”
Strange—he could act decisively, yet the words refused to come out.
In the end, Su Qingci didn’t answer, and Pei Jingchen didn’t press further. They stood in silence, one turning to leave, the other turning to leave as well. But after taking only a few steps into the residential complex, each hid behind a tree, watching until the Koenigsegg disappeared from sight.
Su Qingci wiped the blood splattered beyond the sink with a towel.
His physical strength was declining day by day. Yesterday, after just five hours in the studio, he’d experienced exhaustion and even difficulty breathing.
Su Qingci recalled how his symptoms had been mild just two months ago. It seemed he was rapidly approaching terminal illness. Perhaps one late night, he would suffocate to death from respiratory failure. Living alone, with no family or friends, no one would discover his lifeless body in time. Not until it began to rot and stink, the room swarming with flies.
How utterly grotesque.
Su Qingci gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh. But he didn’t care. Suffocation took only one to six minutes. Sudden cardiac death would be even quicker. To depart this world so swiftly was a blessing—far more dignified than clinging to life in an ICU, hooked up to tubes, stripped of all dignity. As for whether he rotted or molded after death? That was none of Su Qingci’s concern. Dead was dead—what did he care about posthumous dignity?
And those enemies who looked down on him? Hearing of his miserable, undignified death, they’d surely shout “Karma!”
As for Pei Jingchen, witnessing the “ghost” that had tormented him for over a decade finally vanish—utterly obliterated—was nothing short of deeply satisfying.
Su Qingci thought with a self-destructive twist: trading his own miserable death for Pei Jingchen’s unrestrained joy and the weight lifted from his remaining days—it was worth it.
After moping around at home for several days, Su Qingci grabbed his oil painting box and headed out. This was his soul—even if tomorrow brought terminal illness, today he would still pick up his brushes. Painting was the meaning of survival, the interpretation of life.
Su Qingci didn’t drive. After all, when painting outdoors, walking along the way felt more grounded, even if it was slow going. When he spotted an interesting scene, he’d sketch it with a pencil. When he saw intriguing passersby, he’d pause to observe, gradually losing track of time.
The day passed swiftly and richly. After watching a street argument, Su Qingci rose to leave when sudden dizziness struck.
Frantic, he braced himself against a streetlamp, gasping for breath as darkness and light swirled before his eyes. It felt like plunging into a swimming pool—sounds muffled by water, indistinct from all directions.
After a long moment, he finally heard someone calling his name—“Xiao Ci.”
Su Qingci looked up blankly. A blurry face came into focus. Slightly shorter than him, with a rounded figure and thick, beautiful hair—it was Pei Haiyang.
“Xiao Ci, what are you doing here? Why do you look so terrible?” Pei Haiyang reached out to steady him, his concern palpable.
Su Qingci flinched at the intense worry in his eyes, averting his gaze with a hint of resistance. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a bit of low blood sugar.”
Pei Haiyang immediately pulled two chocolate bars from his pocket. “Eat these quickly.” He then jogged to the convenience store to grab a bottle of water.
Su Qingci took sips of water and bites of chocolate, managing to finish under Pei Haiyang’s watchful eye. With the second bar, he didn’t swallow it right away. He let it melt slowly in his mouth—rich and velvety, sweet with a hint of bitterness.
Seeing Su Qingci’s complexion hadn’t improved, Pei Haiyang grew anxious. He suggested going to the hospital, but Su Qingci shook his head in refusal. Pei Haiyang didn’t press him, instead offering, “How about we go sit at Uncle’s place? It’s not far anyway.”
Su Qingci hesitated for a moment before climbing into the van parked by the roadside. Feeling embarrassed, Pei Haiyang apologized for making him ride in a secondhand vehicle that cost less than a pair of his shoes.
Su Qingci smiled and said, “Uncle, you’re just sentimental.”
This hit a chord with Pei Haiyang. With Pei Jingchen’s wealth, why wouldn’t he buy his old father a new car? But Pei Haiyang cherished the past. He’d driven this secondhand van for nearly thirty years—his very first vehicle. Even when it finally broke down, he’d rent a storage unit to keep it as a memento.
Su Qingci had a reserved nature and spoke little to anyone besides Pei Jingchen. Pei Haiyang kept the conversation flowing throughout the ride, explaining their chance encounter happened because he’d just finished a delivery. He added that it was fortunate they met, otherwise, what would they have done if you’d fainted?
He was quite chatty, but Su Qingci didn’t mind.
Upon arriving at the bakery, Su Qingci looked up at the sign bearing the words “Always Smiling” and the logo at the front—a cartoon boy modeled after Pei Jingchen, youthful, sunny, and utterly adorable.
The bakery was flooded with light, bright and cheerful. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows framed the space, while glass display cases neatly showcased an array of colorful desserts.
Pei Haiyang opened the door and invited Su Qingci inside. “Still the same, right?”
Not at all. Even Su Qingci’s favorite chocolate cream puffs and mousse cakes were in their familiar spots.
Su Qingci entered the shop and sat down at a sofa booth in the tasting area. Pei Haiyang asked him what he wanted to eat, telling him not to be shy and to help himself.
Su Qingci paused. Those words were identical to what Pei Haiyang had said the first time he stood outside the bakery, differing only in a few phrases—“Little one, are you hungry? What would you like? Don’t be afraid, just point, and Uncle will get it for you.”
Su Qingci clearly remembered eating while crying back then, while Pei Haiyang fed him and comforted him.
He said he was six years old, that today was his birthday, that an uncle had come to their house—a friend of his mother’s—and that his father had hit his mother.
On his sixth birthday, his mother dressed up beautifully and baked a birthday cake herself, waiting for him to come home from school. When he walked out the school gate, it wasn’t the driver who came to pick him up, but his father. His father was so busy, yet he personally came to pick him up on his birthday, lifting him high and saying, “Happy birthday, son.”
On their way home, they saw the villa door ajar. A man in florist’s attire was holding Mom, who frantically pushed him away.
The man was Mom’s first love, running a flower shop. Mom had coincidentally ordered flowers from his store. Mom tried desperately to explain it was just a coincidence, but Dad didn’t believe her. “With all the flower shops in the city,” he demanded, “how did you just happen to buy flowers from your first boyfriend? And delivered personally by the owner? Who are you dressing up so beautifully for?” Did I come home too early and interrupt your little rendezvous?
The flowers were torn to shreds, the birthday cake smashed to pieces. Mom was taken away by ambulance. He stood on the street like a homeless stray dog, wandering aimlessly. Spotting a beautiful cream cake in a shop window, he finally burst into loud sobs.
The gentle shop owner came out at the sound, asking, “Who’s your mommy? Don’t cry, don’t cry. Uncle will hold you, good boy. Hungry? Point at whatever you want, Uncle will get it for you.”
Looking at the chocolate mousse Pei Haiyang brought over, Su Qingci said, “Thanks, Uncle.”
Pei Haiyang smiled and asked how things had been lately, then inquired if the iceberg lava cake and chocolate egg tarts were tasty. Su Qingci looked blankly at him. Pei Haiyang grew anxious: “I had Xiao Chen bring them to you last time. What? You didn’t get to try them?”
Su Qingci finally understood and replied, “I… wasn’t home at the time.”
Pei Haiyang recalled that Pei Jingchen had indeed mentioned this. Seeing Su Qingci’s expression, he sensed something was off. “Did you two have a fight?”
Pei Haiyang sighed softly. “Xiao Chen seems easygoing, but he takes after his mother—stubborn and competitive. Sometimes what he says doesn’t match what he thinks.” He patted Su Qingci’s shoulder across the table. “Don’t take him too seriously.”
Su Qingci’s eyes stung slightly. “He’s been… accommodating me all along.”
He replaced the word “enduring” with “accommodating.”
As they left the bakery, Pei Haiyang pressed a bag of bread into Su Qingci’s hands, reminding him to eat on time and bundle up in the cold. Noticing his bare hands, he hurried back inside to fetch a pair of gloves. “You’re an artist—your hands are your livelihood. Why aren’t you taking better care of them? They’re all red from the cold.”
Pei Haiyang said, “Come visit Uncle with Xiaochen during the New Year this year.”
Su Qingci gave no definite answer, merely smiling as he took his leave from Pei Haiyang.
Snow fell again. This year, the capital was perpetually blanketed in snow, an unusual cold settling over it. Su Qingci carried a bag of bread in one hand and an oil painting box in the other. The wind couldn’t penetrate his warmth.
Only such a warm father could raise such a wonderful son.
As for him, Su Qingci, he could only crawl in the shadows—a “spawn of sin” who, in his mother’s words, “only harms others and himself by living,” and a “bastard born of a whore” in his father’s mouth.
Su Qingci sneered inwardly. Hadn’t his paranoid, obsessive father undergone paternity tests? More than once, in fact.
It was also during this season that Su Ge “lost his mind” again, slapping the thirteen-year-old across the face with a chilling smile. “You went to that cake shop again? Is Pei Haiyang’s bread that good? Is he your real father?”
He wanted to fight back, but he couldn’t.
First, years of suppression had left him frail and malnourished. A thin, underdeveloped boy stood no chance against a strong, grown man.
Second, he’d grown accustomed to it. Since age six, violence had been his daily reality. Beatings and verbal abuse were routine; slaps and kicks to the stomach were considered lenient punishments.
When he saw Su Ge raise the broom, he resignedly cowered in the corner. Suddenly, a sharp shout rang out from outside the door: “Stop it!”
The teenager’s voice was clear and bright, like a spring thunderclap shattering decay and illuminating the gloom.
The takeout was tossed to the ground. He stepped in front of the boy, shouting angrily, “You lunatic! Try hitting him again!”
His own parents, the ones closest to him, had inflicted the deepest wounds. If even his parents were like this, how could anyone else be trusted? Even his own grandfather could stand by, turning a blind eye. Yet this boy, whom he’d barely met, threw himself in front of him without hesitation.
He was a radiant sunflower, while he was a butterfly sheltered beneath its petals, safe from wind and sun.
But now? Am I no longer in your eyes, in your heart?
Su Qingci braced himself against the streetlamp, clutching his heart that pounded so hard it hurt.
From the moment he stood up for him, his eyes, his heart, even his very marrow and soul were filled with him—only him.
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