Before they got married, they lived in a very small rented apartment.
The apartment was in an old residential compound three bus stops from the hospital, on the sixth floor, with no elevator. The stairwell light was broken year-round, so they had to turn on their phones' flashlights when returning at night. The room was only a little over thirty square meters, with one bed, one old table, and one small wardrobe. The kitchen was so narrow that two people would bump into each other just turning around.
Yet Shen Nanxing liked that place.
Because back then, once the door closed, the inside became a world belonging only to the two of them.
Gu Cheng'an's salary was not high, and Shen Nanxing had only recently become a permanent employee. Every month when they received their pay, they paid the rent first, then saved a little money and carefully allocated the rest. They kept meticulous track of the discounted vegetables at the supermarket in the evening, the cafeteria meals they packed up when they could not finish them, and the balance on their bus cards.
On her days off, Shen Nanxing would wash the bedsheets and hang them on the small balcony. When the wind blew, the scent of laundry detergent drifted into the room, and she felt that their days were clean and wholesome.
Gu Cheng'an liked studying for his exams at the old table. The desk lamp was not very bright, and he would often rub his brow after reading for a while. When Shen Nanxing returned from work, she would quietly cook noodles, add a fried egg, then tap on the table. “Doctor Gu, time to eat.”
Back then, he was not yet Doctor Gu, but merely a young doctor desperately striving toward the future.
He looked up at her, laughter in his eyes. “Head nurse Shen, thank you for your hard work.”
Shen Nanxing smiled and pushed him. “Stop flattering me.”
They had argued too. Over money, over their schedules, over who had forgotten to take out the trash, and over Gu Cheng'an canceling at the last minute three times in a row. But after an argument, Gu Cheng'an would take the initiative to go downstairs and buy her favorite red bean pastries, then stand at the door and say softly, “I was wrong. Open the door.”
Shen Nanxing had been softhearted then, and quick to open the door.
One winter, the heating in the rented apartment was poor, and drafts seeped through the cracks in the windows. When Shen Nanxing returned from the night shift, her fingers were stiff with cold. Gu Cheng'an had boiled hot water in advance, placed her slippers beside the radiator to warm them, and wrapped her in his own coat.
“One day, we’ll definitely buy a house with underfloor heating,” he said.
Shen Nanxing leaned against his shoulder, so sleepy that she could barely keep her eyes open, yet she still laughed at him. “Pay next month’s rent first, then we’ll talk.”
“We’ll have it all,” Gu Cheng'an said. “A house, children, stable jobs—we’ll have them all.”
At the time, those words sounded like a promise.
Later, they really did have a house, children, and what seemed to others like stable jobs. Yet Shen Nanxing often thought of that drafty rented apartment and of the Gu Cheng'an who had warmed her slippers, and in her heart, he instead felt distant.
When they bought their first house, they nearly emptied all their savings.
Part of the down payment came from The Gu Family, so Gu Cheng'an's name was written on the property deed. Shen Nanxing had not been without hesitation, but at the time Gu Cheng'an held her hand and said, “We’re husband and wife. It’s the same whoever’s name is written.”
His mother-in-law also said from beside them, “Women shouldn’t be so particular about these things. When the family is harmonious, everything prospers. Besides, it will all belong to the child in the future.”
Shen Nanxing believed them.
She transferred her savings over, continued working the night shift, continued living frugally, and continued repaying the mortgage together with Gu Cheng'an. During the renovations, she personally went to the building-materials market to save money and haggled with vendors over the prices. Gu Cheng'an was busy, so she made many of the decisions herself.
On the day they moved into the new residence, she stood in the living room, her eyes burning with emotion.
It was proof that they had finally put down roots in the city.
But she did not know that some things had been laying the groundwork from the very beginning. The name on the property deed, her mother-in-law’s tone, and Gu Cheng'an’s words—“It’s the same whoever’s name is written”—all became tiny, sharp thorns many years later.
It was just that she had been too young then, had trusted marriage too much, and had believed too deeply that love could offset reality.