Two days later, Su Qingci was transferred to a regular ward.
Annalise arrived again with fresh flowers. Without asking if Su Qingci liked them or not, she grabbed the bouquet of lilies that hadn’t yet wilted and tossed them into the trash can. grinding her teeth as she tossed them. The lilies kissed the trash can with a soft thud. If she hadn’t feared overreacting and frightening someone, she would have stomped on them a few times.
Su Qingci’s right hand gently rubbed the IV port on his left wrist. “Annalise.”
Annalise couldn’t hear. She stuffed the hydrangeas she’d bought into the vase, clenching her teeth as she did it, knocking off several petals in the process.
Su Qingci closed his eyes briefly: “Annalise.”
“Annalise Maso.”
“Sis.”
“Please don’t call me that! I’m not worthy of it, not at all!” Annelise spoke at breakneck speed, her words pouring out like beans spilling from a sack—and all in French.
Su Qingci: “…”
Annalise sat down on the chair beside the hospital bed, peeling an apple with a fruit knife. She peeled it with gritted teeth, the skin coming off in ragged strips, leaving the flesh pitted and uneven. “You’re sick, aren’t you? Think you’re so cool? Acting like you’re in some melodramatic movie?”
Her own mother had been exactly like this—refusing to admit her liver cancer until she was rushed into the ER with a critical condition notice. She’d only managed to spend her mother’s final three days by her side. Annelise despised this attitude, slicing off a large chunk of apple flesh. “In Teacher Su’s eyes, I’m nothing but a profit-driven art dealer.”
Su Qingci replied calmly, “You’re being too extreme.” “
“???” Being called extreme by someone who truly is extreme—wasn’t that a bit off? Annelise laughed bitterly in anger, wishing she could pry open Su Qingci’s skull with a fruit knife. She felt a chill of dread, especially recalling Su Qingci’s earlier signs of distress that she’d dismissed as nothing. Every time she thought of it, she was filled with guilt and regret.
What “taking a break”? He was terminally ill. Constantly talking about death wasn’t just pessimism—it was terminal illness. Why rush to finish ‘Xunyi’ within six months? Because he was terminally ill. Terminal illness, terminal illness, terminal illness… Annelise set down the fruit, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Forget the business partnership—don’t we even count as friends?”
Annalise knew Su Qingci only had three contacts in his WeChat list: his grandfather, Pei Jingchen, and herself. Annalise snatched the phone from Su Qingci’s pillow in a rage: “Your grandfather doesn’t count, and your boyfriend is excluded too. I’m the only friend on your list. Does that mean our relationship…” Who the hell is this?! Damn it, there’s more than one?!”
Annalise was caught off guard, staring dumbfounded at the nicknames “Carefree” and “Lucky” on his contacts list, looking utterly shocked.
Su Qingci ignored her.
Annalise looked again and noticed new contacts—four in total now, but no Pei Jingchen. Had he been deleted? Annalise hesitated, then placed the phone back: “Qingci, after nearly dying, it’s like being reborn. Let go of what you need to let go…”
Annalise paused, glancing at the vibrant hydrangeas on the windowsill. She’d considered using the flower’s symbolism of “hope, health, reunion, and perfection” to offer some heartfelt encouragement, but two things stopped her: first, she wasn’t skilled at such things, and second, it felt too preachy—something Su Qingci detested.
Annalise knew when to stop. After years of knowing Su Qingci, she understood his boundaries—she’d only bounce around wildly within his comfort zone, never overstepping. She placed the apple on the table, saying, “You eat first. I’ll go wash the strawberries.” When she returned, someone else had entered the room.
Pei Jingchen.
Annalise handed the washed strawberries to Su Qingci, reminding him to eat them, then tactfully slipped out with her little lambskin bag.
Su Qingci: “Why are you here again?”
“Feeling better today?” Pei Jingchen spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping.
Outside the window, the sun blazed high, its rays bending the willow branches under the weight of snow.
Su Qingci didn’t answer, only staring at Pei Jingchen, waiting for him to provide the answer.
Pei Jingchen set down the bag he was carrying and walked to the foot of the bed. “Want to lie down?”
Su Qingci took a deep breath but ignored him. Pei Jingchen didn’t press, simply standing at the foot of the bed, ready to obey his every command. Su Qingci stubbornly held his ground for five minutes, only to find Pei Jingchen still standing there, radiating an obstinate resolve that suggested he’d weld himself to the spot if no orders came.
Su Qingci thought to himself that he was stubborn, but Pei Jingchen was just as inflexible—and childish. He didn’t believe Pei Jingchen could stand there forever. Even sentinels on guard duty had to rotate shifts, right? If you’re so capable, stand there until you turn into a living fossil—that’d be impressive. But no, this was a hospital, not a museum. Plus, Mr. Pei was blocking his TV.
“Mm.” Su Qingci reluctantly emitted a breathy sound.
Pei Jingchen moved like a caregiver robot, obeying the command to lower the bed.
The tediously boring TV drama had just ended. When Pei Jingchen asked if he wanted to keep watching, Su Qingci answered by closing his eyes. The next second, the TV was turned off, and the ward fell into complete silence.
Su Qingci remained silent, and Pei Jingchen didn’t disturb him. One lay quietly in bed, the other sat quietly in the companion chair. Neither spoke, and the ward plunged into a silence so profound you could hear a pin drop.
Suddenly, Su Qingci felt a pang of sadness. Between them, they had reached a point where there was nothing left to say.
He remembered the day he woke up. Opening his eyes, he felt only bewilderment—the kind of hazy confusion after drinking until blacking out, waking the next morning with no idea what day it was. As consciousness returned, fragments slowly resurfaced: New Year’s Eve, blood, an alarm clock, a family of three pounding on a car door… then nothing.
Movies and TV dramas always say that before death, one’s life flashes before your eyes like a kaleidoscope, finally settling on the most important person.
Su Qingci blinked, thinking to himself: Inspiration truly does come from real life. He hadn’t reviewed his entire life, but he saw the person he should have seen, standing vividly within arm’s reach. Only, he seemed different from the man in his memories—thinner, haggard, with heavy dark circles under his eyes and stubble covering his face.
Though he never cared about maintaining an idol image—if he wasn’t heading to the office, he’d leave the house with bedhead. Dark circles from a sleepless night? No need for face masks. Looking like a distant relative of a panda? Who cares? He’d stroll the streets unfazed. That carefree, unrestrained freedom suited him just fine.
Su Qingci murmured something, his breath faint—so faint even he couldn’t make it out.
He saw Pei Jingchen seem to freeze for a moment, then his thin lips parted as if to reply.
What was it?
What were those final words before parting? Su Qingci strained to hear clearly, but then the door burst open and a swarm of doctors and nurses rushed in. Staring in disbelief, he watched as two nurses, one on each side, wheeled “his hallucination” out of the ward. A doctor then shone what looked like a flashlight into his eyes.
???
Then the department head personally visited, patting his shoulder and saying, “Hey kid, you’re awake! You’re one tough cookie, blah blah blah.”
It wasn’t until Dr. Da Sha transferred him to a regular ward that Su Qingci belatedly realized he’d been in the ICU. Having been unconscious throughout, he’d only briefly regained consciousness before drifting back to sleep. Thus, the ICU hadn’t been as terrifying as he’d imagined. Perhaps the heavy sedation from quetiapine had dulled his pain. Only after sleeping soundly and fully regaining consciousness did he learn that he had spent eight harrowing hours in the emergency room fighting for his life. Following treatment and expert consultation, Wen Mengmeng personally performed a pulmonary artery dilation procedure.
It was now the seventh day post-surgery.
Pei Jingchen visited every day.
He was no longer in the ICU, so visiting hours were unrestricted. Pei Jingchen came whenever he wanted and stayed as long as he pleased.
On his first visit, Su Qingci had explicitly told him not to come anymore. But Pei Jingchen ignored his words. When he showed up again the next day, Su Qingci felt a surge of irritation at being defied. Yet his energy and strength were depleted; his voice was weak and soft, lacking the force to scold him. He gave up.
If he wasn’t afraid of death, why would he fear Pei Jingchen’s mockery? He’d already seen his most wretched state in the ICU—what else was there to fear? When he awoke, night had fallen. A bright moon hung outside the window. The ward was dim, but a lamp glowed softly in the corner—bright yet gentle, its light not harsh. Beneath it, Pei Jingchen worked, his profile illuminated.
It was that same angle again. Though not at the bedside in their home bedroom, the atmosphere felt identical. White light fell upon Pei Jingchen’s face. His skin was as delicate as fine porcelain, his eyes like dots of ink—black and white sharply defined. Thick, long lashes cast a faint row of shadows beneath his eyelids. His jawline was flawlessly sculpted, the perfect, unbroken stroke of a master painter.
Su Qingci withdrew his gaze. “You haven’t left yet?”
His voice carried a faint, lingering weakness—the exhaustion of a long illness, barely perceptible unless one listened closely.
Pei Jingchen removed something from his ear and rose. “You’re awake. Need to use the restroom?”
Su Qingci recognized it as a Bluetooth earpiece.
“No,” Su Qingci said. “You can go.”
Pei Jingchen automatically ignored the last three words, picking up where he left off: “Thirsty?”
Su Qingci: “Pei Jingchen.”
Pei Jingchen: “Here.”
“I’m here?” Where exactly? Su Qingci widened his eyes at him, a dismissive smirk curling his lips. Why pretend to be some devoted husband?
“Mr. Pei, are you that idle?” Su Qingci asked irritably. “I saw on my phone you signed with Nari Games. Congratulations. Shouldn’t the company be busier? Why not focus on actual work?”
Pei Jingchen closed his laptop and walked to the hospital bed. “I go to the office during the day and come here at night. It doesn’t interfere.”
Su Qingci felt he was completely missing the point.
Pei Jingchen said, “Is coming to keep you company considered neglecting my duties?”
“Accompany me?” After a moment of stunned silence, Su Qingci nearly laughed out loud. But the movement tugged at his wound—not excruciatingly painful, yet still sharp. After narrowly escaping death, receiving this kind of treatment—shouldn’t he be moved to tears of gratitude?
Su Qingci propped himself up to sit. As soon as Pei Jingchen noticed his attempt, he reached out to help, only to have his hand forcefully pushed away. “Pei Jingchen, do you think I’m cheap?”
Pei Jingchen froze.
“Yes, I am,” Su Qingci said with a bitter smile. “I wanted to tell you the day after my diagnosis. First, there was no one else to tell. I couldn’t bear this terrible news alone and wanted to share it with someone I truly loved. Second, my days are numbered—I have at most three years left. I refuse to accept this fate. Even if it meant you pitied me, felt sorry for me, and offered me your pity as charity, I wanted to deceive myself into accepting it. I tried to play the victim with this illness, but if you don’t believe me, then forget it.”
Pei Jingchen exclaimed urgently, “Qingci!”
Su Qingci raised his hand to stop him. “I’ve already stooped low once—crushing my own boundaries and shattering my dignity for the first time in my life. That’s enough. Pretend none of this happened. And take back all your pity. I don’t need your sympathy.”
Even if he died tomorrow, he didn’t need Pei Jingchen’s false, burdened pity today.
*
At eight in the morning, Wen Mengmeng personally led her team of specialists to make their rounds. Given Su Qingci’s standing, no one dared show disrespect. This was especially true for Wen Mengmeng. Growing up in poverty with numerous brothers, she had relied entirely on the Su family’s financial support to attend school, pursue medical studies, earn her master’s and doctorate degrees, and eventually become the widely acclaimed expert she was today. Deeply indebted to the Su family, she served as their family physician for over forty years, always ready to assist.
Approaching seventy, Dr. Wen maintained such excellent health she appeared barely over fifty. Dressed in her white coat and wearing reading glasses, her smile radiated gentle kindness—just like any neighborly grandmother you might encounter.
During academic discussions with her team, she used technical terms beyond Su Qingci’s comprehension. Afterward, she warmly briefed the attending physician and nurses before personally instructing Su Qingci on post-operative care.
After the specialist team departed, Dr. Wen lingered, gazing at Su Qingci as if she wished to say something.
The weather was splendid today—the sun warm yet gentle, the sky a serene azure as snow melted away. A crack in the window let in a breeze that brushed Su Qingci’s cheek, softly ruffling the strands of hair at his forehead. The scene was as beautiful as a painting, yet tinged with a heart-wrenching sense of fragility.
“Su Qingci, your mother…” Wen Mengmeng paused mid-sentence as footsteps approached from behind. She stifled her words, composed her expression, and stepped aside with a smile. “Chairman Su.”
Su Baidong entered the ward. Wen Mengmeng and Secretary Wang followed closely behind, exiting one after the other.
Su Baidong approached the bedside and asked, “Does the wound still hurt?”
Su Qingci didn’t even glance at him. “It hurts. Can you take my place?”
Su Baidong froze. Su Qingci offered a half-smile. “Then why bother asking such nonsense?”
When it came to sniping at people with sarcastic remarks, Su Qingci was quite adept at it. To put it nicely, he enjoyed the thrill of it; to put it bluntly, he was a contrarian. No matter what others said, he always managed to deliberately twist their meaning—commonly known as being ungrateful and unable to distinguish right from wrong.
Su Baidong’s expression darkened, starkly contrasting with the bright sunshine overhead.
Su Qingci drawled lazily, “Anything else? If not, don’t block my sunlight.”
Su Baidong seethed with fury. “I shouldn’t have bothered with you at all! I should have let you die in peace!”
“Mr. Su, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Su Qingci chuckled, flipping a page in the entertainment magazine. “So why bother with all this thankless effort? But it’s not too late to wise up. Just don’t make the same mistake next time.”
“Su Qingci!” Su Baidong’s blood boiled, his face flushing crimson. “Don’t think I care about your death.”
Su Qingci laughed dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t live long anyway. Who cares if you care or not?”
Su Baidong’s fists pounded into cotton, yet cotton offered no resistance. He wasn’t afraid of a war of words—after all, he was the man’s man. When he was debating with foreign companies at the negotiating table, Su Qingci’s mother was still holding him in her arms, wailing like a baby! But so what? Su Qingci was ill and couldn’t handle provocation. Last time, he hadn’t even lost his temper—just spoken a little too sharply—and it had landed Su Qingci in the hospital, nearly costing him his life.
What could he do? The patient had the upper hand, and the grandson reveled in it.
Secretary Wang rushed in upon hearing the commotion, urging the grandfather not to take the grandson seriously—he was just a child.
Su Baidong thought to himself: I’m the elder here! I should be the one honored and cherished, not subjected to this humiliation!
Su Qingci suddenly glanced toward the door as someone entered.
Su Baidong followed his gaze and saw Pei Jingchen. Suppressing his anger for the moment, he called Secretary Wang and left.
Pei Jingchen placed the thermos on the table, twisting off the lid as he said, “I stewed some red jujube and pork bone soup with salvia root.”
He poured out a small bowlful—this way it would cool faster. Stirring it with a ladle until it reached a drinkable temperature, he handed it to Su Qingci. “I know you love desserts, but the doctor said no. You just had surgery; you need a bland diet for at least three months.”
Su Qingci didn’t respond, taking the bowl a few seconds later.
Pei Jingchen produced a milk custard bun as if by magic: “Homemade, low-sugar and low-oil. See if it can be a substitute.”
Su Qingci took it and took a bite. It was sweet without being cloying, the filling soft and silky, rich with milky flavor.
Su Qingci said, “I won’t need them anymore.”
“Alright,” Pei Jingchen replied. “Next time I’ll try coconut milk and water chestnut mille-feuille.”
Su Qingci knew Pei Jingchen had misunderstood him. When he said “no need,” he didn’t mean he disliked the custard buns. He meant he wouldn’t need to make him any food anymore—including pork bone soup, black chicken soup, oxtail soup, or any other kind of soup.
The hospital meals were excellent, nutritionally balanced, with daily costs starting at five thousand yuan. Pei Jingchen didn’t need extra meals.
Su Qingci held back, but finally said, “The hospital meals are excellent. Professional nutritionists tailor them precisely to each patient’s needs—offering both pure diets and Chinese medicinal cuisine. You don’t need to prepare these things anymore.”
His words sounded harsh.
Pei Jingchen knew full well he was overstepping, doing unnecessary work. The private hospital had everything covered—nutritionists assigned one-on-one, dedicated nurses, professional caregivers. Even without him, Su Qingci would be well taken care of.
But…
Pei Jingchen said, “Eating well helps you recover faster.”
Su Qingci wanted to argue back, but suddenly felt drained of strength.
Three nights ago, Pei Jingchen had said, “Qingci, I don’t pity you.”
When he spoke those words, his body stood with his back to the ward’s only light source. His entire face was hidden in shadow. Su Qingci couldn’t see his expression, but he could hear the earnestness in his tone.
If not pity, then what was it?
Sympathy? Or guilt?
He’d said it before: Pei Jingchen was a soft-hearted good soul. Because he’d mentioned a terminal illness but refused to believe it himself, now harboring this bizarre guilt—Pei Jingchen was capable of such contradictions.
Su Qingci felt both amused and exasperated.
After lunch, Pei Jingchen asked Su Qingci if he felt sleepy and suggested he take a nap. He retorted, “Aren’t you leaving?” His dismissal felt unkind, yet Pei Jingchen remained unfazed, stating it was his day off.
How rare—Su Qingci could actually hear the words “day off” come out of Pei Jingchen’s mouth. Even during holidays when the entire Lingyue company was joyfully enjoying the statutory break, our workaholic CEO Pei would be burning the midnight oil, working himself to death before he could overwork anyone else.
Su Qingci thought to himself how fortunate it was that he was a homebody who disliked going out. This way, he could peacefully stay home with Pei Jingchen, even though the latter was perpetually glued to his laptop, rarely acknowledging him.
Su Qingci watched TV while Pei Jingchen worked on his laptop. Su Qingci cooked, while Pei Jingchen worked with his laptop. Su Qingci curled up on the beanbag sofa and woke up from a nap to find Pei Jingchen still working with his laptop, not even shifting his posture or angle. Thankfully, Su Qingci trusted Pei Jingchen’s character enough; otherwise, he would have suspected Pei Jingchen of using work as an excuse to engage in “online romance” with someone else!
Finally unable to contain himself, Su Qingci called out for Pei Jingchen to look at him. He complied, staring at him without blinking—and then nothing.
In that moment, Su Qingci felt both furious and utterly defeated. He was angry at Pei Jingchen for being as wooden as a log, treating him like air, spending all day hugging his computer. Why not just go live with the computer already! Yet he felt powerless, knowing his outbursts fell on deaf ears. Since Pei Jingchen didn’t care for him, why should he consider Su Qingci’s feelings? Treating him like air was already an act of immense patience. As for living with a computer? Well, that sounded perfect! By day, they’d be soulmates mutually inspiring each other; by night, he’d have an endless library of movies to choose from, every kind of adult content imaginable.
The more Su Qingci thought about it, the angrier he got. Damn it, he wasn’t even worth as much as a computer!
Su Qingci felt a twinge of relief that he hadn’t sunk so low as to get jealous of a machine—to the point of smashing it to smithereens with a hammer when Pei Jingchen wasn’t looking.
How wonderful. Before, whenever I recalled these past events, I’d seethe with indignation until I was nearly beside myself—hating Pei Jingchen for his stubbornness while wallowing in self-pity. Now, thinking of them, I feel an unexpected calm. No resentment, no bitterness, no self-pity remains—only a sense of release.
So this is what “letting go” truly means. Though the journey was winding, the outcome proved far easier than I ever imagined.
“I want to go for a walk,” Su Qingci said.
*
Pei Jingchen pushed Su Qingci in his wheelchair to the pavilion in the garden. He asked if Su Qingci wanted to go inside, but Su Qingci shook his head, saying he wanted to bask in the sun.
The early spring sun felt warm on his skin, gentle rather than harsh, and lingering in its warmth was deeply soothing. In the distance lay a golf course where several figures in hospital gowns, accompanied by nurses, were practicing their swings.
Su Qingci watched them play, becoming lost in the scene until Pei Jingchen’s finger gently brushed his bangs, snapping him back to awareness.
Only then did Pei Jingchen realize Su Qingci wasn’t sweating at all—he had misjudged him.
Su Qingci’s complexion was naturally fair, but a serious illness had made him even paler. Under the shelter of the building, it wasn’t so noticeable, but in the sunlight, his face seemed almost translucent.
He resembled a fragile butterfly—a breeze could carry his away, rain could scatter him, and the slightest touch might shatter his delicate wings.
Pei Jingchen’s breath caught in his throat, as if something were lodged there. After a moment, he steadied himself and asked, “Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?”
Su Qingci nodded.
“Wait here,” Pei Jingchen said, immediately going to fetch it.
Vending machines were plentiful here. He scanned the QR code to pay, only then realizing the water was too cold. He returned to the ward, asked a nurse for hot water, poured it into a thermos, and retraced his steps. But suddenly, he noticed the wheelchair was empty.
In that instant, Pei Jingchen felt his heart suddenly go weightless, plummeting downward violently!
He frantically searched around, calling out, “Su—” Only to turn and see Su Qingci standing in the pavilion.
His heart hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Pei Jingchen stumbled slightly as he took his first step. Calling out, “Su Qingci,” he entered the pavilion. “Why did you get up? What if you pulled at your wound?”
Su Qingci looked at him. “It’s been half a month since the surgery. The stitches are already out.”
Pei Jingchen immediately replied, “You still can’t be careless.”
Su Qingci remained silent as Pei Jingchen handed him warm water. Su Qingci cradled the thermos, blowing on it to cool it before sipping.
Last winter had been exceptionally cold, but spring arrived unusually early this year. Frost and snow melted, winding their way through the damp soil. Listen closely, and you could even hear birds singing.
Su Qingci looked up in surprise. On the third-floor balcony, he saw a bird kept in a cage.
“Pei Jingchen, you don’t have to keep putting yourself down like this,” Su Qingci said. “You don’t owe me anything. You never have.”
Pei Jingchen: “Su Qingci.”
Su Qingci cut him off. “Let me finish.”
Pei Jingchen’s thin lips trembled slightly.
Su Qingci’s gaze grew distant as he continued, “You’re a good person, kind and grateful. After all, you’re Uncle Haiyang’s son—how could you be bad? Just because I once donated blood to save your life, you endured my stubbornness and capriciousness. Even when I resorted to underhanded tactics like drugging you, you endured it. Not only did you not sever ties with me, you agreed to be with me.”
“I know my personality is awful—jealous of this, resentful of that, badmouthing Mu Yao, forbidding you from seeing Wu Lü, even threatening you with your own brother. Any one of these actions alone would earn me hundreds of floors of online criticism. You’ve been more than generous, truly.”
Su Qingci lowered his eyelids, silently smiling. “Don’t dwell on saving my life. And stop imprisoning yourself—because you saved me long ago.”
Noticing Pei Jingchen about to speak, Su Qingci waved him off. “So between us, it’s not that you owe me a life—it’s that I owe you one.”
Su Qingci raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed intently on him. “Jingchen, we’re even now.”
“You are free.”
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