The light outside the window had shifted into a softer hue, the kind that washed hospital walls in faded gold. The sound of the machines hummed like steady companions, their rhythm almost comforting. Gu Ze Yan had not moved from the chair since dawn. His jacket was crumpled in the corner, his shirt creased beyond saving, and the faint shadow along his jaw betrayed how long he had gone without shaving.
Lin Qing Yun turned her head slowly on the pillow. Her eyes lingered on him for a long while—his bent shoulders, his exhausted face, the stubborn way he sat there as though sheer willpower could keep her safe.
Finally, she spoke, her voice calm, light, almost detached:
"Mr. Gu, you should go home."
Ze Yan stirred, lifting his head. His heart jumped just at the sound of her voice, though her tone was polite enough to keep him at a distance. "I'm fine," he answered quickly, brushing off her words as though they meant nothing. "I can stay like this."
Her gaze slid over him, slow, deliberate. Then she gave him a look—one side eye, sharp as a blade, yet utterly effortless.
"You look like a homeless person."
The words landed like a pebble dropped in still water, spreading ripples through his chest.
Ze Yan froze. For a moment he even forgot how to breathe. He reached up to touch his hair, realizing it was a mess, and glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. Even he could smell the faint bitterness of fatigue clinging to him.
He tried a weak laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "It doesn't matter. I don't care how I look."
Her eyes didn't soften. Calm, steady, ocean-deep.
"But I care."
The words pierced deeper than he expected. His throat tightened. She wasn't angry, wasn't scolding, simply stating it as fact. Yet her indifference hurt more than any rejection.
His mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to argue, to tell her that being by her side mattered more than hygiene, more than dignity, more than anything else. But the weight of her gaze—cool, patient, unwavering—was too much. He shrank under it like a guilty schoolboy caught in the act.
Like a puppy who had been scolded, he lowered his head.
"…Alright. I'll go home," he muttered.
If she had smiled then, if she had teased him gently, he might have felt relief. But she didn't. She simply turned her eyes away, as though it made no difference to her whether he stayed or left.
That indifference was a blade, but he bore it without complaint.
---
The reluctant departure
Before he left, Ze Yan adjusted her blanket with careful hands, making sure no corner left her cold. He set her water cup closer to the bed, checked that the call button was within reach.
"I'll be back soon," he promised, his voice low, almost pleading.
She closed her eyes, lashes lowering like a curtain. She didn't answer.
The silence told him everything: whether he came back or not, it didn't matter to her.
Still, he clung to his promise.
---
The apartment of ghosts
The drive back to his apartment felt endless. He parked without remembering the turns he had taken.
Inside, the place was too clean, too polished, too lifeless without her.
He stripped off his clothes and stood under the shower for a long time. The water scalded his skin, but it couldn't wash away the ache lodged deep in his chest. He scrubbed hard, as though he could erase the despair clinging to him, but when the steam cleared, the man in the mirror was still hollow-eyed and raw.
Opening his wardrobe, he hesitated. His ties lay untouched, piled in the corner where he had thrown them months ago. He picked one up, fingers brushing the silk. Memories stabbed through him: Qing Yun's hands at his collar every morning, her quiet care, the way her smile softened even the sharpest day.
His throat closed. He tossed the tie back, refusing to wear it. Without her, the knot was meaningless.
He dressed simply, clean at last, and stood for a moment staring at the empty apartment. For a breath, he imagined her small touches—the plants she once placed, the notes she left, the way she made this place a home.
Then he shook himself and left, heart hammering with the need to return to her.
---
The vigil resumes
By the time he arrived back at the hospital, night had already fallen. The corridor outside her room was hushed, dim light pooling against the walls.
He opened the door slowly, afraid of startling her.
Inside, she was asleep. Her profile was turned toward the window, strands of hair scattered against the pillow. Her breathing was soft, even, almost childlike in its rhythm.
Relief swelled in his chest, nearly bringing him to his knees.
He sank into the chair, watching her.
The quiet wrapped around them, broken only by the steady beep of the monitor. He reached out, hand hovering just above hers, trembling with the urge to touch. But he stopped before contact, afraid of disturbing her rest, afraid of breaking the fragile peace.
Instead, he whispered, his voice raw:
"I'll make myself worthy of you. No matter how many times you push me away, I'll stay."
His hand hovered in the air a moment longer, then dropped back to his lap.
Leaning back, he let his eyes rest on her face, memorizing each detail as though afraid she might vanish if he looked away.
The night deepened. He did not sleep. He kept vigil, freshly washed, calmer now—but more determined than ever.