Faced with Lu Nanyang’s shameless laughter, Xie Quan really wanted to throw the glass on the bedside table at his face, but he didn’t even have the strength to lift his arm. He could only watch helplessly until Lu Nanyang laughed himself out.
“Had enough? If so, get out,” Xie Quan snapped.
Lu Nanyang coughed twice to suppress his laughter. “No can do. Not until you eat.”
“I don’t want to.” Xie Quan turned his head away, uninterested.
“Nope.” Lu Nanyang sat down at the edge of the bed, firm in his tone. “Now you feel embarrassed? What were you doing before? Really thought you could survive just on meds, like some medicine jar?”
“…”
Xie Quan knew he was in the wrong. He pressed his thin lips together and said nothing more.
But expecting someone who’s lost their sense of taste to live alone and eat properly is actually quite difficult.
Sometimes Xie Quan envied people who could binge eat—they could at least taste food, use it as comfort. He, on the other hand, had nearly forgotten what flavor even meant over the years.
He had struggled, gone to doctors, tried various treatments—but none worked.
Eventually, he gave up and accepted that food simply had no taste.
Eating became a kind of torture. He had to set alarms just to remember to eat; otherwise, he’d forget. He couldn’t taste food going bad either, which had caused countless stomach issues.
What others found comforting, he found stressful.
Lu Nanyang lifted the plastic bowl, peeled off the cover, and the aroma of rice congee floated into the air. He scooped up a spoonful and tasted it, squinting with satisfaction.
“This congee shop is my go-to. It’s really good—very fragrant and thick,” he said as he stirred. “I got you the century egg and lean pork congee. Good protein. Most places make it way too salty, but theirs is just right—flavorful but not overly salty. Maybe they use sesame oil or oyster sauce? Anyway, I love it.”
Maybe it was because Lu Nanyang described it so vividly, but Xie Quan felt a rare flicker of hunger.
Lu Nanyang scooped another spoonful, cooled it, and brought it to Xie Quan’s mouth. Though a bit annoyed by being fed like a child, Xie Quan still obediently opened his mouth.
The congee had no flavor beyond being warm, but somehow, he finished the whole bowl.
“Good job.” Lu Nanyang contentedly cleaned up the bowl.
Xie Quan sighed.
In bed, he’s a friend; out of bed, he’s basically a mom. He really picked himself a one-of-a-kind f***buddy.
But after finishing the bowl, the sharp pain in his stomach eased significantly, and some color returned to his face.
“The doctor asked if I wanted to admit you for a hospital stay. I didn’t say yes,” Lu Nanyang said while tidying up and adjusting the IV drip. “Sorry for not asking your opinion. I just decided on my own.”
Xie Quan had no intention of being hospitalized anyway. He had a ton of things to do and an internship to attend. Still, he was curious about Lu Nanyang’s reasoning. “Why?”
“When I got here, I saw a girl in the lobby—probably just a high schooler—screaming and crying, saying someone had raped her.” Lu Nanyang looked down. “No one paid her any mind. A few male nurses just dragged her away.”
Xie Quan stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You shouldn’t study law. You should go into wedding planning—just witness people being happy every day.”
“…Huh?” Lu Nanyang looked offended.
“This is the Sixth Hospital—a psych hospital. Every day, they admit hundreds of people like that. What, should the doctors and nurses give each one a therapy session?” Xie Quan said calmly. “And how do you know she wasn’t lying or delusional? What if she just randomly accused some innocent guy and started screaming?”
Lu Nanyang fell silent.
Xie Quan pointed out the window. “See that courtyard behind the outpatient building?”
Lu Nanyang looked where he pointed. In the streetlamp’s glow, a few old, rundown buildings were visible across the road. A tall iron fence surrounded them, with a locked gate.
“That’s the so-called ‘special ward’ for patients. In reality, it’s just a psych ward for severe or dangerous cases,” Xie Quan said quietly. “Like Xie Yuanqiang.”
Lu Nanyang froze. “He’s… here?”
“According to the legal documents, yes. I’ve never confirmed it myself.” Xie Quan’s face was blank, like he was talking about someone else’s life. “But since no one told me he transferred out, he’s probably still there.”
He didn’t want to think about the details of Xie Yuanqiang. If he could, he’d rather that man disappear from this world completely.
But fate is ridiculous and ironic—after a few years, he and Xie Yuanqiang ended up in the same hospital.
Truthfully, he had known all along. He just didn’t want to face it: he was no different from Xie Yuanqiang. Both of them were hopelessly messed up.
“Xie Quan,” Lu Nanyang interrupted his thoughts. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. If you don’t want to stay here, we’ll go after this IV drip finishes.”
Xie Quan frowned. “There’s no need—”
“There is.” Lu Nanyang looked serious. “You’re not crazy. You’re just exhausted. As long as you want, you can leave this damned place anytime.”
As he spoke, Lu Nanyang glanced at his watch. “It’s not even that late yet. This IV drip will be done by nine at the latest. I’ll borrow a car from a friend and go get your luggage. A round trip would take maybe an hour. If he’s quick, even fifty minutes…”
While Lu Nanyang was still babbling, calculating time and distance, Xie Quan’s heart gave a sudden jolt. His fingers clenched tightly around the bedsheet.
All these years, from childhood till now, no one had ever said to him, “As long as you want to.”
No one ever said, “As long as you want to, you don’t have to do housework.”
No one said, “As long as you want to, you can be a bad student. You don’t have to try so hard.”
No one said, “As long as you want to, you can break free from Xie Yuanqiang and leave this hellhole.”
No one had ever told him that. Not even himself. He had always believed his desires were the least important factor in any decision.
Society wouldn’t change its rules just because he had thoughts. Test papers wouldn’t get easier just because he had feelings. Slowly, he began to believe that emotions and desires were useless things—only leading to cycles of hope and disappointment.
If all hope eventually ends in disappointment, it’s better not to hope at all.
So long as he expected nothing from anyone or anything, he would never have to feel the pain of disappointment.
But then Lu Nanyang appeared, bringing him far more warmth than he ever expected. This selfless idiot never thought about himself before doing anything. No matter how exhausting or inconvenient it was, he’d still show that goofy smile.
Again and again, he made Xie Quan want to hope.
“…Maybe this is better.” After thinking it over for a long time, Lu Nanyang finally landed on the optimal solution. “You stay here and nap for a bit. I’ll go borrow the car from Chen Zige, then come pick you up to grab your stuff from the old place. That should be fastest. If that sounds okay, then I’ll—”
Xie Quan suddenly grabbed Lu Nanyang’s arm and yanked him back. “Come back. Did I say I wanted to leave?”
Lu Nanyang froze. “I thought you didn’t want to stay here.”
“So what? If I told you to jump out the window right now, would you do it too?” Xie Quan shot back. “You brought me to the hospital in the middle of the night, ran around registering me, paid the bills, and now you want to borrow a car and send me back. Do you think you’re Superman? Do you ever think about yourself before doing anything?”
An anxious expression spread across Lu Nanyang’s face. “But…”
“I don’t have that big of a problem with this hospital. So what if Xie Yuanqiang’s here? It’s not like he’s sleeping in the bed across from mine.” Xie Quan tugged his hand, pulling Lu Nanyang down. “Sit. Stay with me tonight. We’ll go back tomorrow morning.”
Only then did Lu Nanyang relax, sitting down at the edge of Xie Quan’s bed as told.
Xie Quan watched his side profile from the corner of his eye and almost laughed.
Lu Nanyang really was easy to read. The moment he heard that Xie Quan needed him to stay, he visibly relaxed, his whole mood lifting.
He was like a giant dog circling its owner—just being needed was enough to make him happy.
Xie Quan lay back, shifting a bit. The hospital bed was fairly large, with just enough space for another adult to lie beside him.
He turned his head and patted the empty space next to him. “Wanna come up? There’s room.”
Maybe he really was tired, because Lu Nanyang only hesitated for a moment before climbing onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and a comforting warmth brushed up against Xie Quan’s cold arm.
In that pale, sterile hospital room, Lu Nanyang—dressed in a warm-toned shirt—became the only splash of color.
From outside the window came the occasional sound of insects. Inside, all was quiet, except for the soft drip of the IV.
After a while, Xie Quan whispered, “Talk to me. I can’t sleep.”
“What do you want to hear?” Lu Nanyang turned to look at him.
“What were your birth parents like?” Xie Quan asked. “What was your life like before you came to Yuncheng?”
“My parents, huh…” Lu Nanyang looked up at the ceiling. “Ordinary folks. My mom was a primary school teacher, and my dad was a welder at a steel plant. The city I grew up in wasn’t anything special—neither south nor north, winters were cold but barely any snow, summers were dry and scorching. Not like Yuncheng, with its diverse plant life. But near our house there was a mountain with a temple, said to be very spiritual. My mom was a believer. Every year she’d make time to take me there to burn incense and ask the Buddha to bless me with wealth and success.”
He smiled faintly. “In a way, I guess it worked. Too bad she forgot to pray for herself and my dad. I was too young back then, just followed her around without a clue. If only I’d prayed for them too. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently…”
His voice got quieter and quieter. When he turned to check on Xie Quan, he realized the other had already fallen asleep at some point, breathing soft and even.
Lu Nanyang gently pulled the covers up for him, reaching for the hand that had fallen outside the blanket.
That’s when he noticed a few faint scars on Xie Quan’s left wrist—not very obvious, but each one precisely aligned with his pulse points. The kind of scars that time might fade, but never fully erase.
Lu Nanyang held that wrist in his palm, covering the scars, then carefully tucked it under the blanket—keeping his own hand there, not letting go.
