As Pei Jingchen stepped out the door, Su Qingci thought—he really was an honest man. But he was too honest, incapable even of telling a lie.
With every new friend Pei Jingchen made, Su Qingci’s place in his heart shifted one step back. Each time Pei Jingchen gathered with friends, Su Qingci was left alone in the vast, empty apartment. While revelry and laughter filled the other side, this side was cold and desolate, dusty and lonely, as if utterly abandoned.
If it were mutual affection, that might be one thing. But in their relationship, how could Su Qingci not feel a sense of crisis?
He wanted to be the only one in Pei Jingchen’s heart, wanted Pei Jingchen to put him first in everything, to have eyes and heart only for him.
Therefore, he wouldn’t allow Pei Jingchen to “hang out” with friends.
Dinner gatherings? Acceptable. But they had to end by his designated time.
Karaoke? Permissible. But if he called, they had to leave immediately, even in the thick of it.
Leaning against the doorframe, Su Qingci breathed heavily. He was the living embodiment of selfish and harsh.
Pei Jingchen had it rough.
To endure such a suffocating relationship for so long.
*
Painting was physically demanding work, typically requiring long hours from dawn until late at night. As an impressionist painter, Su Qingci valued those fleeting moments of inspiration. Sometimes, when the muse struck, he’d rise in the dead of night to paint.
Now, afflicted by illness, his stamina was greatly diminished. After just an hour of sitting, he could barely hold on. He washed his brushes and tossed and turned in bed for two hours before drowsiness finally crept in. But the moment his eyes closed, he was jolted awake by a ringing phone.
It was the hospital calling.
They were likely saying Su Qingci’s condition couldn’t be ignored and strongly advising him to be admitted for treatment. If he insisted on refusing, he’d have to sign a waiver declining hospitalization.
Su Qingci felt this illness had shifted his mindset, at least somewhat. In the past, he would have thought, “What the hell do I care? Do whatever you want.” That was just how bad-tempered and self-centered he was.
But now he felt it was best to avoid causing trouble for others whenever possible.
So despite his poor mental state and utter exhaustion, Su Qingci went to the hospital.
It was the same doctor from yesterday. Seeing Su Qingci, he immediately grew impatient, rattling off a lecture about the severity of pulmonary arterial hypertension and earnestly urging him to be admitted.
Su Qingci asked, “Where do I sign?”
The doctor’s face flushed crimson with rage. He gulped down two mouthfuls of water soaked with Sterculia lychnophora seeds, inwardly cursing the stubborn fool who refused to listen to reason—beyond saving.
“If you refuse hospitalization, then take the targeted medication and strictly follow medical advice, understand? Listen to me!” The doctor pounded the keyboard with a clatter, frustrated beyond belief. “This disease is difficult to treat, but you can’t give up on yourself! If the targeted drugs prove ineffective, lung transplantation is an option. If not for yourself, consider your parents.”
Su Qingci’s pen paused, leaving a heavy ink blot on the paper.
The doctor droned on, “Remember to take these medications, get plenty of rest, avoid overexertion, monitor your weight and blood pressure regularly, and above all, don’t catch a cold—it’ll accelerate heart failure. Then you won’t have a choice about hospitalization!”
Though the doctor’s concern was genuine, Su Qingci had heard enough. With a quick thank you, he swiftly scribbled across the consent form: “I have received the doctor’s explanation and advice, but I insist on my choice and refuse inpatient treatment.”
Neat, vigorous regular script.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, studied the words, then looked back at the man.
The writing mirrored the man—strikingly impressive at first glance.
Too bad…
“Young man,” the doctor cautioned once more, “Remember to take your medication!”
Su Qingci nodded and left the office. Seeing the elevator crowded, he opted for the stairs.
Three flights down, the familiar shortness of breath arrived as expected. He ignored it, as if trying to prove it was all an illusion—that he wasn’t sick at all, that the doctor had misdiagnosed him. He forced himself to breathe faster, accelerating his pace. By the time he reached the first floor, he finally couldn’t hold back and began coughing violently.
The coughing fit wouldn’t stop.
Su Qingci fled into the restroom. The coughing, piercing his chest as if it would crush his lungs, left him trembling. His arms braced against the sink, his hands clenched so tightly around the countertop that his knuckles turned white. The contrast made the pool of blood beneath him appear even more vividly scarlet.
The scene was so horrifying that everyone else in the bathroom fled in terror.
Su Qingci, however, breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could cough up blood to his heart’s content.
After about five minutes, Su Qingci’s body relaxed, leaving him utterly drained. Strands of damp hair clung to his temples and hung over his forehead. His face was deathly pale, his eyes stained red, and physiological tears glistened on his thick lashes.
He looked utterly wretched.
He had researched it: untreated idiopathic pulmonary arterial hypertension carried an average life expectancy of just 2.8 years.
Su Qingci had seen people in the final stages of terminal illness. Withered and gaunt, their bodies riddled with tubes, stripped of all ability—including speech—they lay in beds clinging to life without dignity.
Su Qingci didn’t want that.
He never feared death, so he certainly wouldn’t live like a dog.
He was a man of dignity. He refused to be stripped naked in an ICU, refused a urinary catheter, refused a colostomy bag, refused a feeding tube. He especially refused to become unrecognizable just to prolong his life by a few years.
Su Qingci turned on the faucet, flushing the horrifying pool clean. He cupped water to wash his face and rinse his mouth. Only when the nauseating taste of rust vanished did he straighten his appearance before the mirror.
Thankfully, no one had seen.
His head ached, his throat hurt, and his chest throbbed. Su Qingci rubbed his eyes—dry and parched, no tears came.
He pulled out his phone, typed [Come keep me company] in the pinned chat, then deleted it.
In this moment, he truly, deeply missed Pei Jingchen.
Of the eight billion people in the world, he only needed Pei Jingchen by his side.
When he came to his senses, Su Qingci had already arrived at the building housing Pei Jingchen’s company.
Yet he hesitated.
Pei Jingchen was busy, unlike Su Qingci who worked freelance. The company he founded, Lingyue, was on the rise. Tens of thousands of employees depended on him for their livelihoods. Every day brought countless social engagements and endless meetings.
If he had any sense, he shouldn’t keep disturbing Pei Jingchen.
Su Qingci glanced at his watch. It was lunchtime now—it should be okay, right?
He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror before messaging Pei Jingchen to ask if he was free for lunch.
Within a minute, he replied: [In a meeting.]
He answered every message, but that wasn’t something to brag about. Because “prompt replies” were Su Qingci’s demand.
Back when they first started dating, Pei Jingchen couldn’t be bothered to respond. Su Qingci would ramble on endlessly, and Pei Jingchen would take at least two hours to reply—and even then, his responses were terse: “Mm,” “Busy,” “No thanks,” “Not coming back,” “Whatever.”
Su Qingci refused to play a one-sided game, unwilling to endure the constant anxiety and uncertainty. He strictly enforced a rule: Pei Jingchen must reply within three minutes.
It didn’t matter if Pei Jingchen only sent one or two words, or even just a punctuation mark. As long as he replied, Su Qingci felt at ease.
[I’ll wait for you after your meeting.]
Su Qingci sent: [I’m downstairs at your office.]
Pei Jingchen: [.]
He said he knew.
Su Qingci understood, smiling solidly at that small period.
Half an hour later, Pei Jingchen emerged from the office building. Instead of getting into his car, he stood by the passenger door and tapped on the window.
Su Qingci rolled down the window and asked with a smile, “What do you want to eat?”
Pei Jingchen: “I’ve already eaten.”
Su Qingci felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. Though he should have been used to it by now, the chill still seeped through.
He blinked, suddenly realizing it must be the open window letting in the frosty winter wind: “What did you eat?”
Pei Jingchen said, “Peking duck.”
Su Qingci paused, suddenly feeling warmth wash over her. A smile slipped onto his lips: “Oh? Is it good?”
Pei Jingchen: “Same taste as always. Haven’t changed.”
Su Qingci’s mood lifted. He asked earnestly, “Want some more? I can go buy it.”
Pei Jingchen asked, “Aren’t you painting today?”
Su Qingci suspected he was hinting for him to leave, though perhaps he meant no such thing—perhaps he was just being overly sensitive.
Or perhaps he should look at it another way—Pei Jingchen was concerned about his work, which was something to be happy about.
Su Qingci said, “Take a day off.”
Pei Jingchen: “Go home.”
Su Qingci: “…”
That was the real dismissal.
Pei Jingchen wasn’t as awkward as he was. He either said nothing or spoke plainly.
Whether Pei Jingchen didn’t want him getting in the way and annoying him, or simply meant “go home and rest,” Su Qingci felt a wave of grievance, an inexpressible sense of sorrow. He preferred to believe it was the latter, for that made him feel slightly better.
“Get in the car.” Su Qingci faintly caught the scent of blood again, forcing himself to swallow it back. “I have something to tell you.”
Pei Jingchen asked, “What is it?”
Su Qingci repeated, “Get in the car.”
Seeing Pei Jingchen’s unmoved expression, Su Qingci’s lips curved into a mocking smile. “While our relationship is out in the open and no secret, dragging things out here isn’t exactly appropriate. You wouldn’t want your company’s employees gossiping about you behind your back, would you?”
When Su Qingci wanted to annoy someone, it came naturally to her. Especially with Pei Jingchen—he knew him well enough to effortlessly step on his landmines.
Pei Jingchen’s expression darkened as he opened the door and got in.
Unlike Su Qingci’s gloomy, world-weary appearance, Pei Jingchen was handsome and robust. In his youth, he was the epitome of a sunny, carefree boy. Dressed in a basketball jersey, sweating on the court, he radiated youthful charm and vitality. Even now, as a working professional, he couldn’t hide his vibrant energy, brimming with life.
If Su Qingci was melancholy lavender, then in his eyes, Pei Jingchen was a sunflower—optimistic, passionate, and full of conviction.
Pei Jingchen’s WeChat profile picture was a sunflower, set by Su Qingci, who wouldn’t let him change it.
Pei Jingchen was handsome—the radiant, sun-kissed kind—and his smile could charm the world. Unfortunately, Su Qingci had seen it only a handful of times.
Yet when Pei Jingchen wore his cold expression, it was enough to make hearts skip a beat—and coincidentally, that was the look Su Qingci saw most often.
Pei Jingchen: “Speak.”
Su Qingci gripped the steering wheel with both hands, using it to steady his wavering body.
He was like moldy weeds in a ditch, never seeing sunlight. Could he beg the sunflower to lower its head in pity?
It wouldn’t take long—two to three years at most.
Su Qingci looked at him and said, “I’m sick.”
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