Chenghe Medical Center’s service was indeed like a home away from home. After completing the basic examinations, the nurse brought Zhou Mi a nutritionally balanced breakfast with excellent color, aroma, and taste, and asked if she wanted to eat on the bed or at the table.

Zhou Mi quickly got down from the bed. Once the nurse left, she took a photo and sent it to her best friend: So extravagant.

He Miaoyan replied: Is this what they serve in hospitals? This looks like postpartum meal service, ask if they brought the wrong food.

Zhou Mi laughed bitterly, finding humor in her difficult situation.

Zhou Mi’s attending doctor’s surname was Wu, called Wu Wei. The name sounded rigid, yet she was a female doctor with gentle features who seemed approachable.

At least that’s what Zhou Mi thought.

Compared to typical doctor-patient relationships, Dr. Wu was more like a distant older sister who worked at the hospital. When discussing future arrangements with her, her words were carefully chosen, trying to reduce Zhou Mi’s anxiety and fear.

Zhou Mi was quite grateful for this.

Over the course of the morning, she gained a basic understanding of the process for the next few days.

It wasn’t much different from what the doctor at the public hospital had said. Wu Wei suggested she choose other, more reliable methods, but after consideration, Zhou Mi still couldn’t overcome her psychological barrier and insisted on trying medication first.

The only difference was that this time in the ultrasound room, the doctor performing the B-ultrasound asked if she and her husband wanted to keep some images as a memento.

Zhou Mi lay there stunned for a moment, then shook her head vigorously.

She didn’t want any more ties with the unfortunate little companion in her belly, whether physical or emotional. It would only increase guilt and sadness, with no other purpose.

When the examination ended, Zhou Mi silently said “sorry” in her heart.

But that was all, just “sorry.”

Sorry to you, and sorry to myself. May we meet again in the future if fate allows.

After finishing this breakfast feast with self-mockery, Zhou Mi’s body warmed up. Feeling drowsy after eating, she climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When the sunlight tickling her eyelids woke her up again, it was already afternoon.

Zhou Mi hadn’t slept this well in days. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She stretched her arms and let out an enormously loud yawn, the trailing sound extending into a long hum, like some strange operatic vocalization.

When she could half-open her eyelids, she reached for her phone by the pillow. In her blurry vision, she saw someone sitting on the sofa not far away, a tall, thin figure.

Zhou Mi’s heart skipped a beat, fully awakened.

Their eyes met. Zhang Lian was looking at her calmly, a MacBook placed on the coffee table in front of him. He was probably working.

Zhou Mi remembered her somewhat exaggerated “morning temper” just now. Her ears grew hot as she grabbed her phone, turned her back to him, and quickly retreated under the covers.

The man’s voice drifted leisurely from behind: “If you had made such a big commotion the first time you woke up, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

Zhou Mi: “…”

She gritted her teeth for a moment, then raised her muffled voice: “Don’t you ever yawn in your entire life?”

“All of mine combined probably can’t match the decibels of your single one.” His tone carried a hint of amusement.

Zhou Mi pressed her face against the pillow, her fists clenching: “Who asked you to listen here? Couldn’t you be anywhere else? Must you be in my hospital room? So sorry to disturb you, Mr. Boss.”

Zhang Lian laughed: “I said I’d come to see you at noon.”

Zhou Mi responded with an “oh”: “Forgot to put on makeup beforehand.”

Zhang Lian still smiled, changing the subject: “Hungry? I’ll have them bring lunch over.”

Only then did Zhou Mi remember the time. She lit up her screen – it was already 3:30 in the afternoon.

Zhou Mi sat up in surprise, staring at the wrinkles on the bedsheet for a moment before tilting her head to ask Zhang Lian: “Did you come at noon?”

Zhang Lian replied: “Yes.”

“And you’ve stayed until now?” Her face was full of suspicion.

Zhang Lian leaned back on the sofa: “What else?”

Zhou Mi’s fingers fidgeted with small movements on the blanket: “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Why wake you up?” Zhang Lian said calmly, “To argue with me?”

Zhou Mi turned her head, focusing on the gap in the venetian blinds, as if trying to stuff her indescribable emotions there: “Well… you do have some humanity after all.”

Zhang Lian raised his lips: “What, ready to get along with me now?”

Zhou Mi pressed her lips together, announcing as if making a major declaration: “Until this matter is over, I will get along with you, and we’ll solve this together.”

Her serious manner was nothing if not amusing. Zhang Lian asked: “And after that?”

Zhou Mi glanced at him: “Each goes back to their own home, their own life.”

Zhang Lian nodded: “Mm.”

Zhou Mi quickly added: “And also—”

Zhang Lian gestured for her to continue.

“Our improper relationship officially ends from now on. If you have needs, please find someone else,” her hands unconsciously clasped together, forming a hollow arc on the white bedsheet. “After I finish my internship at Aoxing, I’ll leave, and after that, we should have no contact whatsoever, OK?”

As soon as she finished speaking, it was as if someone had accidentally pressed the space bar while watching a video – the entire hospital room briefly fell silent.

Zhang Lian responded: “Fine.”

And when this word dropped into the air, that’s when the real pause began.

Zhou Mi said nothing more, unwilling to acknowledge her slight reluctance, that bit of melancholy, that hint of regret. But these emotions subtly surged in her chest, permeating densely throughout.

What did this all mean?

The realistic ending to a fairy tale? A negative textbook example? Zhou Mi found it hard to judge.

The happiness was real, the embarrassment was real, the fear was real, and the pain to come was also real.

Early on the third morning of her hospital stay, Zhou Mi took the medication on an empty stomach. Before this, all she kept asking Dr. Wu was: “Will it hurt a lot? How long will the pain last?”

Dr. Wu reassured her that it varied from person to person, just grit your teeth and bear it.

Then Zhou Mi imagined herself as one of those fearless heroes throughout history, viewing poison as faith, bravely facing death.

Before leaving the room, Dr. Wu turned and instructed Zhang Lian, who stood by the bed: “Take her for a walk in the hallway.”

Zhang Lian responded, then turned to look at Zhou Mi: “How do you feel?”

Zhou Mi looked up and glared at him: “I feel like you’re not a decent human being.”

Zhang Lian didn’t respond, just looked at her. He had a remarkable personal ability – occasionally seeming frivolous when speaking, but once quiet, he always appeared particularly serious and deeply emotional, his clear eyes seeming to hold only you.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked.

Zhou Mi pursed her lips for a while, mumbling: “I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll cry if I go out.”

The moment after taking the medication, she was already filled with an unbearable sourness and swelling, unable to distinguish between grievance and resentment. She only knew that her entire being felt like a water balloon saturated with lemon juice, ready to burst.

She was facing something terrible and extremely frightening, yet had no reliable support to lean on. It could even be said that she only had herself.

She was even more unwilling to lose composure in front of Zhang Lian.

She wanted to be strong, calm, and composed. If at some point in the future, either of them looked back on this scene, Zhou Mi wanted to be a strong and clear impression, not a tearful, blurry-faced mess.

Having made up her mind, Zhou Mi took a deep breath, trying hard to form a smile at the corners of her lips: “Let’s go out for a walk, the ward is too stuffy.”

But this smile was visibly weak, like a faded rainbow.

Zhang Lian looked at her and said, “Alright.”

The two walked side by side in the corridor, without a word of conversation or any physical contact, neither fast nor slow.

There was a glass window on the wall at the end, letting sunlight pour in without restraint. Looking from a distance, it seemed like a highly luminous white painting hanging there.

Zhou Mi stared at that spot and commented: “That place looks like an entrance to heaven.”

Zhang Lian looked over as well, his eyes slightly narrowed: “Want to go take a look?”

“Why go there? Are you worthy?” Zhou Mi’s tone was cold, as if cursing: “You know very well where someone like you should go.”

Zhang Lian remained calm: “Where should I go? Will you lead the way?”

Zhou Mi’s voice suddenly rose: “How can you be so malicious?”

“Who started it?” Zhang Lian lowered his gaze, calmly meeting her fierce stare.

Zhou Mi stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly her emotions collapsed, her features twisting like a bitter gourd: “I’m already so miserable, and you still talk to me like this—”

“Going to cry outside now?” Zhang Lian reminded her.

Zhou Mi pushed back her tears in an instant: “No, I won’t cry.”

Zhang Lian said, “Cry if you want to.”

Zhou Mi rubbed her nose twice: “I don’t want to cry anymore, I’m just a bit scared.”

Zhang Lian asked: “Afraid of the pain?”

Zhou Mi said, “Afraid of dying.”

Zhang Lian said, “That won’t happen.”

Zhou Mi looked up: “If I die, will you pay with your life?”

Zhang Lian pondered briefly: “I would follow you in death.”

Zhou Mi didn’t believe him: “Really?”

Zhang Lian wasn’t sure if he was comforting a child or scaring one: “Yes, but we might not take the same path, since you’ll go to heaven and I’ll go to hell.”

Zhou Mi blinked a few times: “Then you can escort me to heaven’s gate first, and then go to hell.”

Then, as if making final arrangements, she said: “If something goes wrong later, if there’s an accident, remember to call my parents and my friends right away. I want to see them one last time before I die.”

Zhang Lian sighed inwardly: “Nothing like that will happen, Zhou Mi.”

“I’ve checked, there’s still a possibility of severe bleeding that could be life-threatening,” she began to obsess, taking out her phone with a serious face: “Save their phone numbers.”

“Alright,” Zhang Lian was completely obliging: “I’ll save them when we get back to the ward.”

…

They didn’t stay outside for long.

They quickly returned to the ward to wait quietly, each occupying one side of the sofa, with almost no communication.

In less than an hour, Zhou Mi was engulfed by intense pain, as if all the organs in her lower abdomen were being torn apart and twisted back together, continuously repeating this process, wave after wave, convulsing like torture.

Zhang Lian saw her curl up, her face pale, and hurriedly moved closer to ask: “Does it hurt a lot?”

Zhou Mi’s tears fell like strings of pearls as she incoherently described: “It’s not just ‘a lot’… I’ve rarely had menstrual cramps before, but I think this is… ugh… a million times worse than real cramps… even more…”

Zhang Lian’s thick eyebrows furrowed tightly. Without a word, he pulled her head to his chest.

Zhou Mi, no longer caring about appearances, reflexively wrapped her arms around his waist, as if grasping a lifeline in purgatory, crying uncontrollably.

Zhang Lian leaned down against her head, kissing her hair and forehead as he had done many times before, offering comfort.

But in those times, they had never been in their current state.

Zhou Mi buried her face against his chest, sobbing intermittently, repeating a certain word, as if calling someone.

Zhang Lian listened carefully and realized she was calling for her mother: “My mom… if only my mom were here… I want my mom…”

Zhang Lian took a deep breath, turning his face slightly away, stroking her forehead that kept getting soaked with sweat. For a moment, in an unprecedented tightness in his chest, he accepted Zhou Mi’s assessment of him: Zhang Lian, you really aren’t a decent human being.

When the girl was crying so hard she could barely breathe, his lips moved, saying three words.

…

Actually, towards the end, the pain wasn’t so acute anymore, gradually flowing out from her body and nerves, departing. But Zhou Mi’s tears still couldn’t stop. She knew that her current state was terrible, fragile, wailing like a ghost, face indistinct – something she never wanted to remember for the rest of her life.

In her daze, she remembered cutting her finger for the first time in kindergarten, the blurry wound on her knee after accidentally falling on the cement ground, the stupid way she ran home crying on the day of her first period, asking her mom what to do…

Mom looked at her and laughed: “You’re growing up.”

So, it turns out that growing up isn’t just the creamy yellow of condensed milk, the sprouting green of stretching limbs, the blue and white of jumping school uniforms, the pink bubbles like strawberry bath bombs, the cold silver-gray of high buildings and overpasses. It also has another color, more obscure yet more intense, called blood red.