If it weren’t for me…

The Hospital.

Xu Fengluan had visited the hospital many times this year—a place she’d deliberately avoided in the past, rushing in and out only for mole removal. This year, however, she’d stepped inside repeatedly, lingering for long periods, long enough to see the corridor’s end.

She sat on a metal chair by the wall, her curved spine seeming ready to curl into a ball, arms hugging her lowered head. Her jacket was discarded, her long pants rolled up, exposing gruesome friction wounds.

Under the harsh lights, her elongated shadow wavered, almost imperceptible.

Far off, chaos reigned. Unlike past visits, this incident happened outside the bar, witnessed by many. News spread fast, drawing bloodthirsty vultures in minutes.

Xu ignored it all, leaving Ji Lunan to handle the fallout.

Her mind was a fog, ears still ringing from the explosion.

Memory replayed the scene endlessly.

Adrenaline surged, alcohol flushing her system, slowing the world.

In her green eyes, the van barreled toward her, out of control. The driver’s face twisted in panic.

No time to react, Xu was shoved aside, tumbling away.

Chu Cheng and Ji Lunan’s shouts rang out as the van, about to hit, collided first with a straight-moving sedan.

The impact exploded the van, flames erupting.

Xu scrambled up, rushing to Liu Tingsong…

“A-Feng?!”

A worried voice broke through. Chu Cheng offered a cup of hot water from somewhere. “Don’t worry too much. Tingsong-jie’s fine.”

She cursed, “No idea which idiot tossed that bottle.”

Xu gripped the cup, water touching her lips before setting it down, shaking her head numbly.

The injuries weren’t severe.

Shoved and fallen, her left side scraped the ground, superficial wounds—bloody but minor. The doctor treated them quickly, dismissing her.

Liu’s were trickier. An empty bottle from a drunk, tossed roadside, left glass shards. Liu fell into them.

Xu turned to the adjacent exam room, its closed door silent, oddly oppressive.

She opened her mouth, managing, “Several pieces of glass went in.”

“Several,” she repeated, her heavy, hoarse voice wooden, like a soulless puppet.

“I saw,” Chu Cheng said, pausing, “It’s okay. Qingyan-jie’s in there with her.”

After the incident, Ji Lunan’s wife arrived. Xu had wanted to stay, but seeing her pale and unsteady, the others pushed her out.

Chu Cheng didn’t believe her own words. Glass shards embedded deep; when she arrived, Xu held a bloodied person, scaring her witless. How much worse for Xu, facing it head-on?

It was the first time she’d seen Xu like this. Even during their high-speed chase with paparazzi, Xu stayed composed, crashing into a field with cracked bones and a concussion, unflinching until Kuang Ye arrived, showing only faint weakness, as if fearing nothing.

She really feared nothing.

As longtime friends, Xu never spoke of it outright, but through her lyrics and habits, they sensed her despair. To put it bluntly, Xu didn’t seek death, but her will to live…

On mountain runs, she pushed hardest, throttle to the max, corners without braking, terrifying Chu Cheng and the trio, legs buckling. Yet Xu flashed a thumbs-up, grinning.

But that day, her face was ashen, eyes raw with terror. Though it was Liu who’d lost her voice, Xu couldn’t speak, trembling violently, cold sweat pouring.

Instead, Liu comforted her, stroking her cheek, managing strained, unfamiliar words.

“Don’t… don’t be afraid…”

Chu Cheng jolted, blurting, “I… I think I heard Tingsong-jie speak?!”

“Did she regain her voice?”

Xu seemed to realize, nodding then shaking her head.

Chu Cheng, anxious, pressed, “What does that mean? I’m not hallucinating, am I?”

“I don’t know…” Xu finally spoke, her voice raspy, like swallowing gravel.

In truth, before being shoved, she’d heard Liu call “A-Feng,” and say a few more words. But at the hospital, Liu shut down again, silent.

Xu hadn’t considered faking. The stark contrast was obvious.

She recalled the doctor’s words: stimulation didn’t help Liu; her subconscious resisted. Even brief recovery could relapse.

Xu drank, the water failing to wash away the bitterness, crumpling the cup. “Orange, did I do wrong?”

***

Xu Fengluan shut out everything, trapped in self-blame. “If it wasn’t me, she wouldn’t have lost her voice once, let alone twice.”

“If not for me, she’d be fine.”

“She’s had no performances since returning, except that one show.”

“She always accommodated me, tolerated me. I lack security, confidence. I’m too childish, stuck in the past…”

She murmured, face contorting in pain, breaths ragged, her shadow thinning, barely visible unless sought.

A muffled grunt came from the room—the doctor speaking.

“Hold her; this shard’s too deep…” @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

“Bear with it; I’ll try not to use anesthesia, okay?”

“It’ll hurt, but bite this cloth.”

“Hold on, okay?”

“Cover her eyes.”

Xu shuddered. Though separated by a wall, unseen, her mind filled the gaps, mirroring the pain.

She dug nails into her thigh, carving crescents, the sting sharp. How much worse for Liu with glass in the same spot?

Breathing labored, chest heaving, Xu’s eyes reddened but held no tears.

Another suppressed whimper escaped the room, a sound so pained it forced even a voiceless Liu to make faint, muddled noises. Liu endured pain well; even a kitchen knife nick was handled nonchalantly, rinsed and bandaged.

Xu’s nails dug deeper, her taut arms and legs healing slowly, blood dripping onto the glossy tiles.

Her heart seized with each muffled cry.

If she hadn’t been impulsive, chasing those paparazzi…

If she hadn’t…

“Hold her, just a bit more. Don’t move.”

Even Chu Cheng stood, stamping her foot in distress.

Xu covered her eyes.

The muffled cries persisted until a final one, followed by collective relief. Chu Cheng nearly collapsed; Xu slumped into the chair.

The hallway’s voices faded, replaced by heels clicking.

Xu ignored them, eyes still covered, chest rising and falling.

Until a shadow fell over her.

She opened her eyes.

Xu Nanzhu stood before her, attire disheveled, breathing slightly ragged, as if rushing here. “Can we talk?”

Xu’s gaze chilled, staring coldly.### Chapter 78

The fast-moving car was carelessly abandoned at the gate. Canvas shoes splashed through puddles, struggling to pull free with wet slaps, leaving a trail of soaked footprints on white porcelain tiles.

Li Jianbai, waiting anxiously outside, paced until she caught sight of a familiar figure. Her face lit up, and she hurried forward.

But her expression froze, shocked, “What happened to you?!”

No wonder her reaction—passersby shot stunned glances too.

They’d seen drenched people, but never this wretched.

White hair clung to her cheeks, clothes soaked through, as if raining indoors. Her pant legs were caked with leaves and mud, like she’d crawled out of a dumpster.

“You, you…” Li Jianbai fumbled for words.

Annoyed by her noise, Xu Fengluan glanced up silently, her green eyes flat, devoid of the anger or sadness Li Jianbai expected—just a lifeless void.

This made Li Jianbai more uneasy. She’d seen too many emotions outside operating rooms, and Xu Fengluan’s state was the trickiest kind, prompting her to warn nurses to watch closely for unexpected incidents.

“A-A-Feng,” Li Jianbai stammered, panicked. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

Irritated by her dawdling, Xu Fengluan finally spoke, “Let’s go.”

Wasn’t she summoned here?

She came.

Li Jianbai opened her mouth, wanting to comfort but mindful of the situation inside. She gritted her teeth, stepping forward, saying, “The surgery didn’t go as hoped. Grandma’s too old…”

Xu Fengluan stayed silent, trailing behind, leaving wet footprints.

“It’s worse than we thought. She’s been in a coma since, only waking briefly, calling your name.”

“Grandpa and Aunt Xu have been at the hospital for days. Grandma’s former students and patients visited too.”

“Everyone can see she’s holding on by a thread.”

“She really wants to see you.”

Talking while hurrying, Li Jianbai’s breath grew uneven, only calming slightly in the elevator.

The silver walls reflected their faces like mirrors.

Xu Fengluan remained unchanged, unmoved by Li Jianbai’s words, like a walking corpse following prior orders.

Seeing her like this, Li Jianbai, her childhood friend, felt a pang. Rubbing her stinging nose, she said, “A-Feng, don’t be like this.”

Her voice weakened, having shed tears in secret these past days, choking up, “I just don’t want her to leave with regrets. You’re angry now, but years later, you’ll regret it.”

She turned, voice heavy, “Grandma really cares about you.”

Xu Fengluan stayed silent, only lifting her eyes after that line, gazing at Li Jianbai with a calm, dead-sea stare.

Later, Li Jianbai would recall this moment, realizing—when her contact was deleted, her calls unanswered—that this glance marked the end of their friendship.

She’d bid farewell to her childhood friend in this way.

But at the time, Li Jianbai didn’t grasp it, only feeling instinctive fear. She reached for Xu Fengluan’s arm, but Xu dodged a step back.

The elevator doors opened.

Xu Fengluan looked away, saying, “Let’s go.”

Li Jianbai wanted to speak but, fearing for the patient, stomped and led Xu forward.

To an unaware onlooker, the scene was eerie: a white-coated doctor rushing ahead, followed by a sopping, white-haired figure, water dripping, leaving a shimmering trail.

The hospital’s white lights and tiles matched Xu Fengluan’s ashen face, like a horror movie frame, radiating ghostly chill.

Those outside the ward froze, staring.

The white-haired old man and Xu Nanzhu, closest to the door, stood simultaneously.

“You…” Xu Nanzhu began, then shifted, “Go in.”

It wasn’t hard to guess the sequence. A figure like Xu Nanzhu attending the anniversary without a whisper? With her mother bedridden, she had no heart for celebrations. She’d sought Xu Fengluan indirectly through Li Jianbai, unable to reach her directly.

After their deal at the auditorium, she’d rushed back to the hospital.

Nearby were Grandma’s students and patients, recognizing Xu Fengluan and casting unmasked judgmental, curious, or indignant looks.

Xu Fengluan ignored them all, even Li Jianbai’s parents, once close. When Xu Nanzhu opened the door, she stepped inside.

The ward was stifling, despite flowers and fruit baskets. The oxygen machine and heart monitor hummed, but everyone knew they offered only psychological comfort, unable to halt a fading life.

Xu Fengluan paused—the only sign of emotion since entering the hospital.

She disliked hospitals, their halls heavy with pain and hopeless prayers, where even the wind wailed.

Taking a deep breath, she recalled that New Year’s Eve.

At thirteen, a rare warm moment was shattered by a catastrophic accident, still easily searchable today. A hundred-ton truck, exploiting lax holiday oversight, collapsed a bridge during rush hour. Cars and trucks plummeted, nine died on impact, thirty-six were gravely injured.

Resting doctors were recalled, hallways packed with the wounded, blocking the entrance.

Agonized groans, desperate cries, and hurried footsteps seeped through the door, contrasting the festive noise from a small, broken TV.

Locked in a lounge to shield them from the horror, the unknown sounds terrified the children more, their minds conjuring gruesome images. Someone outside shouted, “A broken leg here, hurry!”

The huddled kids flinched. Cold food on the table, barely touched, was now inedible.

“A-Feng?”

Li Jianbai’s call snapped her back, memories receding, leaving only lingering shadows.

Xu Fengluan took a deep breath, regaining a shred of clarity, no longer numb.

The bedridden woman was gently roused. Li Jianbai placed a stool by the bed.

Others crowded in, ignoring courtesy in their resentment toward Xu Fengluan.

She sat, unbothered, her conscience clear. Someone else should be dodging.

The woman on the bed, frail and aged, still exuded stern authority, her white-coat days easily imagined—trustworthy, dependable.

Her reactions were slow, cloudy eyes shifting before settling on Xu Fengluan, managing a vague syllable.

The old man beside her took her hand, soothing, “Yes, A-Feng’s here.”

“Don’t get excited, take it slow,” his voice soft, tinged with fear of breaking her fragile shell.

Someone offered water, waved away.

She couldn’t even drink normally.

Xu Fengluan sat, expressionless, water pooling at her feet, reflecting stark light.

When the crowd dispersed, they finally met eyes.

The air stilled, no matter how others hoped, the two remained silent.

Xu Fengluan’s hands clasped, mind wandering despite the moment.

The rain outside, flowers passed, the auditorium’s end, Chu Cheng’s likely anger—her hospital aversion deepened.

“You…” The woman’s voice rasped, struggling to see Xu Fengluan, “There’s a clean towel over there.”

“No, I’m leaving soon,” Xu Fengluan’s eyes lowered, her wet clothes clinging, spine curving, bones stark.

The woman didn’t insist, her gaze wavering before settling on Xu Fengluan again, saying, “Eat properly.”

“Hm,” Xu Fengluan replied softly. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

Their interaction felt strange, yet it avoided the worst-case scenario.

Xu Nanzhu turned away, staring out the window.

After those brief words, they seemed to have nothing more to say. Not just because of illness—things were always like this. Before, they could discuss studies or suturing practice, but now, with Xu Fengluan neither studying nor pursuing medicine, even those topics were off-limits.

Grandma’s condition was poor. She closed her eyes to rest, then struggled to lift heavy eyelids, saying, “We’ve wronged you.”

Her words landed, eliciting varied reactions in the room.

Li Jianbai opened her mouth, then covered her face.

The old man beside her lowered his head, silent.

Even Xu Nanzhu, by the window, stiffened, reaching for her cigarette case before stopping.

Xu Fengluan alone showed no reaction, her lashes casting faint shadows, wet hair dripping down her cheeks.

Grandma seemed to expect this, not seeking a response. Her words were a key, unlocking a sealed door, letting more spill out.

“We were too stubborn, ignoring your feelings.”

“I’ve wronged you most in my life.”

“We were never good to you.”

Her consciousness was hazy, words rehearsed countless times in her mind, now tumbling out in disarray.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, child.”

“We were too rigid back then, thinking Nanzhu was wrong, and we took it out on you.”

Xu Fengluan’s posture slumped further, familiar frustration rising. She wanted to rage, to shout, but lacked the strength, her mood flat.

Grandma apologized repeatedly, reaching for Xu Fengluan’s face.

But Xu Fengluan stayed rooted, a half-meter gap between them like an uncrossable chasm.

Grandma knew it, her hand falling, eyes dimming, murmuring, “Keys, keys.”

The old man reacted first, offering the keys, but she waved them away, looking at Xu Fengluan.

“Go home, go home,” she repeated stubbornly.

The keys were placed in Xu Fengluan’s palm. She neither gripped nor flung them, letting them rest loosely.

The child who once knelt and begged to return now held the keys again, feeling no joy or emotion.

She finally spoke, voice heavy with autumn’s chill, “You already kicked me out.”

“We were wrong,” Grandma stared at her.

“Does an apology erase everything?” Xu Fengluan tilted her head, face pale, lips purple. “The cost of your mistakes is too low, isn’t it?”

Her words were harsh. In Chinese culture, forgiveness often comes at death’s door, no matter the wrong. But Xu Fengluan refused, saying, “You drove me away.”

Grandma’s breath hitched, alarming those around her, fearing Xu Fengluan’s words would overwhelm her.

But she only tugged her lips, as if expecting this, murmuring, “Go back, take a look.”

Others, unaware of the full story, shot Xu Fengluan disapproving looks. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

The old man started to speak, then stopped.

Xu Nanzhu turned, silently watching Xu Fengluan.

Li Jianbai said, “A-Feng, just agree for Grandma.”

Xu Fengluan fell silent, Liu Tingsong’s image flashing briefly before being suppressed.

The room was full, yet no one stood behind Xu Fengluan.

Grandma, panicking, struggled, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“We wronged you.”

She tried to sit up but couldn’t lift her head, collapsing back.

Xu Fengluan leaned forward, then stopped.

Others moved faster, gently patting Grandma’s frail back, whispering, “Don’t rush, don’t rush.”

Xu Nanzhu glanced at the heart monitor, lips tight.

Held by her husband, Grandma caught her breath, eyes struggling to shine, cautiously asking, “You really don’t want to study medicine?”

After all the back-and-forth, it came to this. Their obsession ran deep, believing in a legacy of saving lives, as if the Xu family was born to heal. Everyone was expected to fulfill it.

But Xu Nanzhu refused, and Xu Fengluan rebelled.

“You’re not interested at all?”

All eyes turned to her, a mix of anger and pleading, hoping she’d give the dying woman the answer she craved for peace.

Xu Fengluan looked down, her face reflected in the pristine tiles.

The old woman in her husband’s arms dimmed, her skeletal hand clutching his sleeve.

“I was,” Xu Fengluan said, voice muffled.

How could she not be?

Children are swayed by adults. Seeing her grandparents praised, saved patients kneeling in gratitude, how could she not feel pride? Her grandmother, a renowned doctor, featured in news and papers, saving countless lives.

Had Xu Fengluan never wanted to be like her?

Of course she had.

“Then you, then you,” Grandma grew agitated, staring intently.

Xu Fengluan’s lips ground together, words spilling, “It’s impossible.”

“You know it’s impossible.”

Her clasped hands tightened, bruising her pale skin.

She said no more, but Grandma suddenly cursed, “It’s because of her, right? Because of her, you don’t want medicine!”

Her wrinkled face twisted, grotesque with rage.

Even her husband showed a flicker of resentment.

Li Jianbai trembled, her parents comforting her.

Others looked confused.

Xu Fengluan recalled much—her aversion to moles, her dislike of fish, why Li Jianbai chose dermatology.

Her grandparents, though busy, planned her and Li Jianbai’s futures, having them read medical journals, learning basic suturing at five or six.

It seemed normal, but their busyness left teaching to a student, assigned to guide them like a tutor, paid generously to support her poor family.

It seemed perfect.

But that student was volatile. Grandma’s strictness, scolding over trifles, bred resentment, worsened by her high regard. The student vented on Xu Fengluan and Li Jianbai.

No beatings—too obvious.

Instead, she brought diseased fish and snakes for suturing practice, their scales raised, bodies bloated, eyes bulging, repulsive even to fish enthusiasts. The snakes, crawling with parasites, horrified even adults.

She used these to disgust the girls.

Already distant from busy elders, they didn’t know how to speak up, believing it was required.

Their guardians, oblivious, praised the student, urging the girls to learn, missing their nightmares and wasting bodies.

It wasn’t until the student, growing bolder, hid post-surgical rotting flesh for practice that a nurse noticed, reporting it. The truth came out.

By then, the girls had endured six months of torment.

After, both loathed fish, snakes, and skin imperfections, obsessively removing even tiny moles.

“I wronged you, I’m so sorry,” Grandma clutched Xu Fengluan’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” her face showed regret, murmuring, “Truly sorry.”

Looking at Xu Fengluan, she said, “If not for her, if not for her words…”

The rain outside continued, dark clouds smothering light, blurring day and night.

Xu Fengluan bowed her head, gently pulling her hand free, placing it by the bed, saying, “It’s not just her.”

She said, “Grandma, I’m starved for love.”

For the first time, she used that title, her tone calm, without shame or sorrow, stating an accepted truth.

“I’m so starved for love,” she looked at her, a mix of regret and helplessness.

“If you’d looked at me more…” Her words stopped, lips twitching, no smile forming. “If you’d just looked at me.”

Xu Fengluan knew she was soft-hearted, a rebellious shell hiding a child craving embrace.

Like with Liu Tingsong’s disappearance and return—just a few soft words, and she’d forgive.

She craved love, to not be discarded like leaves swept away by water.

If Grandma or Xu Nanzhu had softened, truly guided her, nurtured her interest, she might have relented.

But they made choices for her, used expulsion as a threat, earning only her defiance.

Grandma stiffened, then realized, murmuring, “My fault, my fault.”

Her husband didn’t comfort her, his eyes tired and guilty.

Xu Nanzhu, by the window, head hung low, lost in thought.

Speaking didn’t lighten Xu Fengluan’s heart; she only felt cold. Her clothes no longer dripped, the puddle flowing toward the door.

The room fell silent until the speechless woman’s breath faded, the heart monitor shrieking, its red line flattening.

Xu Fengluan slowly raised her hand, closing the regret-filled eyes.

She left the keys by the bed, standing to leave.

As she came, she left without delay or attachment, a task completed.

The rain didn’t stop.