After living there for about two weeks, the wound on Yang Jianzhen’s arm had healed, and Ming Zhifei removed the stitches at home. He had gone online to buy suture removal scissors and tweezers, which he boiled to sterilize—he felt like he was becoming a black-market doctor from the movies.
Perhaps because he was young, Yang Jianzhen’s wound healed well, though it left a ten-centimeter scar on his forearm. It was harrowing to look at; one could only be grateful that no nerves or major blood vessels had been severed.
In mid-October, Ming Zhifei contacted an old classmate from the orthopedic department to ask about the recovery of Yang Jianzhen’s leg fracture. The classmate said a follow-up was necessary after two months to see if the callus had formed properly over the break.
Since the debt collectors hadn’t been seen in the area lately, Ming Zhifei suggested they take a risk and go to the hospital for an X-ray to see how the bone was mending.
“If I really get caught, I’m dead. I can’t exactly run on this leg,” Yang Jianzhen joked. “And all you can do is call the police for me. By the time they arrive, my ‘thing’ might have already been cut off.”
“I could carry you and run while you call the police,” Ming Zhifei replied, giving a different answer than last time.
“With a promise like that, I’m not even afraid of being found,” Yang Jianzhen said. He was resting his head on Ming Zhifei’s lap while they watched a movie.
At some point, this had become their standard position whenever they watched a movie together.
The old sofa had been thrown out. It started because Yang Jianzhen complained it was too bumpy, and since they had a TV now, sitting on it to watch movies was uncomfortable. So Ming Zhifei replaced it with a fabric sofa—he bought it online, and the delivery men took the old one away.
The new sofa was 2.1 meters long—plenty of space for Yang Jianzhen to stretch out, but not quite enough for Ming Zhifei to fit his seat next to him. Consequently, as they sat, Yang Jianzhen would naturally end up lying with his head on Ming Zhifei’s lap. He claimed it was because watching movies for too long required “elevating the affected limb for immobilization,” so he simply had to lie down. Ming Zhifei offered to let him have the whole sofa, but Yang Jianzhen refused; he insisted that Ming Zhifei stay seated just to act as his pillow.
Every day followed a rhythm: waking up, buying groceries, staying home, waiting for Yang Jianzhen to wake, cooking three meals together, doing laundry, and tending to the plants on the balcony. At Yang Jianzhen’s request, Ming Zhifei had bought several more pots—jasmine, cyclamen, camellias… Under his coaching, Ming Zhifei actually learned to identify them. Every morning, he would go to the balcony to water the plants and mist them with a spray bottle. This was something Ming Zhifei would never have done in the past, yet now, he found it surprisingly pleasant.
While misting the plants, Yang Jianzhen would point out the subtle differences from the day before: where a tender sprout had emerged, where a bud had formed, or which pot’s leaves looked more vibrant. These things, which previously never existed in Ming Zhifei’s field of vision, slowly began to capture his attention.
He realized the world didn’t just consist of the “important” things he felt he ought to do; there were countless things unrelated to his goals that existed nonetheless. Ming Zhifei discovered that when he looked at these things, he suddenly felt the world was vast—vast enough to hold both him and everything that had nothing to do with him.
Once he saw them and began watering them, counting the new leaves and buds each day, they started to belong to him. For a long time, he had wrapped thick layers of adhesive tape around his eyes, ears, hands, and feet, placing himself inside a dark box. There was a single beam of light at the top of the box, urging him to hurry and grasp it. He had believed that light was the entirety of his life’s pursuit. After the box was sealed and the light vanished, even in the immobile darkness, he had never questioned why he had only ever chased that one beam.
Now, someone had placed a pot of flowers before him and peeled the tape from his eyes to show him the beauty of a blooming flower. That same person tore the tape from his ears to let him hear beautiful singing. Yang Jianzhen even pulled him along, encouraging him to use the hands previously reserved for his proud surgical skills to clumsily crack eggs into a bowl or pour oil into a pan.
During this process, his heart seemed to have fallen ill. Whether he was looking at that person’s face, seeing him smile, watching his slightly stiff walk, or being approached and touched by him, his heart felt incredibly fragile. It was as if he had returned to his childhood—a time when a breeze or a fall of rain could stir his entire soul.
By the second time they made stir-fried snails, Ming Zhifei had taken over as the lead chef. He was no longer so flustered. Under Yang Jianzhen’s direction, he executed each step of what he considered the “state banquet” snails perfectly, earning praise from his teacher.
When he sucked the snail from its shell, the childhood memory of snails began to blur. The taste of the real snails in the present overwrote the past. He looked up to see Yang Jianzhen watching him with a smile, which somehow led Yang Jianzhen to misunderstand and think he was about to cry again.
“Why do you look so sad?” Yang Jianzhen’s smile softened. He reached out and placed his hand on Ming Zhifei’s cheek. “I’ll keep my hand here. If you cry, I’ll catch the tears.”
“I wasn’t going to cry.” Ming Zhifei didn’t pull away from the touch.
“It’s better to cry occasionally than never at all,” Yang Jianzhen said, his thumb lightly grazing Ming Zhifei’s cheek before pulling away.
Ming Zhifei didn’t understand those words at the time. Despite his confusion, he began to slowly memorize every word Yang Jianzhen said, realizing that a parting was likely approaching.
He knew that to him, Yang Jianzhen was different from the faceless college roommates he had long forgotten. He probably wouldn’t forget this man’s name, his face, or even a single sentence he uttered. Because after a certain point in time, Yang Jianzhen might become like those childhood snails—something that could only be found in memory.
………
The follow-up appointment was at the end of October. They had still been using the air conditioner while sleeping the night before, but upon waking, they found they had to put on sweaters. Fortunately, Yang Jianzhen had prepared autumn and winter clothes in advance. He bought Ming Zhifei clothes for the cold weather—not flashy like his own, but simple hoodies and casual pants, along with a pair of sneakers. Ming Zhifei didn’t find them burdensome, but he noticed that people were significantly friendlier to him when he went out in the clothes Yang Jianzhen had chosen.
The debt collectors never appeared. Ming Zhifei accompanied Yang Jianzhen to the original hospital by taxi for an X-ray. The hard skin on the lower leg had formed well. The doctor said the cast could be removed for light activity, but intense exercise was still off-limits until the bone healed more solidly.
“I still can’t run if someone chases me, so I just have to make sure I don’t get chased,” Yang Jianzhen concluded with a laugh. “I guess I’ll have to keep hiding at home.”
One month. One more month and his bone should be completely healed, Ming Zhifei thought. Then, Yang Jianzhen could go anywhere.
Three months. His life had never contained three months like these—months where he could do nothing, working toward no degree, exam, research, job, social event, or lawsuit. He simply cooked, did laundry, watered flowers, and watched TV with another person. Even during his first-grade summer vacation, he had been shuffled between various training classes.
This was a belated summer vacation. And once the holiday was over, his companion would leave. Just like the song Yang Jianzhen sang: Let’s say goodbye here. The train on the water is arriving at the station. On the road to the future, no one will ever return.
One day while hanging laundry, Ming Zhifei started singing that song. Yang Jianzhen looked at him in surprise. After singing those two lines, Ming Zhifei stopped. Yang Jianzhen placed his hand on Ming Zhifei’s cheek again and smiled.
“You won’t catch any tears with your hand there,” Ming Zhifei said with a smile. “Don’t waste your energy.”
“You look beautiful when you smile,” Yang Jianzhen told him. “Whether you want to cry or laugh, you look beautiful doing it.”
He no longer dismissed Yang Jianzhen’s words as “flirtatious nonsense”; he treated them as the kindness shared between people who had a “life-and-death friendship.” When Yang Jianzhen said he was beautiful, Ming Zhifei neither agreed nor disagreed; he simply placed the words in a drawer in his memory. Perhaps there would be a day to open it.
At the beginning of November, the weather warmed up again. It was a perfect temperature—no need for air conditioning, yet no need to shut the doors against the cold. Every morning, likely due to his biological clock, Ming Zhifei was the first to wake. Lately, he didn’t need earplugs, eye masks, or sleep aids to rest well. He hadn’t slept this soundly since he started working.
Recently, upon waking, he would spend a long time lying in bed watching Yang Jianzhen sleep. Yang Jianzhen would sleep facing him, while Ming Zhifei usually slept with his back to him. But after waking, he would turn toward Yang Jianzhen and gaze at his face for a long time.
A young, handsome, smooth face. Quiet, steady breathing. Sometimes, after watching him for so long, Ming Zhifei couldn’t help but place his hand near Yang Jianzhen’s nose to feel the faint rhythm of his breath. If he didn’t, Yang Jianzhen’s quiet sleep would sometimes make him feel a sudden pang of fear.
After that, Ming Zhifei would gently get out of bed, leave the room, close the door, and begin his day—freshening up and preparing breakfast.
One morning in November, around nine o’clock—about half an hour before Yang Jianzhen usually woke—Ming Zhifei received a call from a landline. He answered with some confusion. When the caller identified himself, Ming Zhifei recognized the voice of the Chief of the Personnel Department at the Third Affiliated Hospital of Lingmen Medical University.