Lin Wan spent the entire night on an IV and was discharged the next morning. The fever had broken, but she was still weak. The calamity had struck like a hammer blow—she felt as if fate had knocked her flat and left her there.
She called her manager to request a week of sick leave, then shut herself in at home. She lay in bed all day, either crying, remembering, or staring into space. The curtains were drawn tight, no lights on; day and night blurred together. When hunger clawed at her stomach, she shuffled to the kitchen to boil some noodles, forced down a few bites, and crawled back under the covers.
She wished she could sleep—really sleep—and meet Wang Xiao in a dream, ask whether he was well in that other world. But even that simple wish wouldn't come. She lay awake day and night until the headaches began, pounding so hard she wished she could knock herself senseless with a hammer.
Her apartment was small, barely fifty square meters—one bedroom and a living room—but she had made it warm. Pale pink wallpaper, a chintz sofa, sky-blue curtains, white furniture, and a pile of stuffed animals at the head of the bed. The shelves held not only rows of books and magazines but also little curios. The most eye-catching was a squat ceramic vase Wang Xiao had thrown himself. She'd teased him that the ugly thing was only good for pickling vegetables; yet when he filled it with a blaze of red roses, it somehow worked. Compared to those ornate crystal vases, this one felt plain and lovable.
In this tiny space, there were traces of him everywhere: computer magazines on the shelf, a mug in the kitchen matching hers in a different color, and, on the shoe rack, an oversized pair of soft-soled slippers.
Wang Xiao had loved holing up at her place—movies, games, or just talking. He'd linger until late every time, only to be "deported" by her at the door. She remembered one night when she walked him downstairs, and he wrapped his arms around her, half-pleading in a boyish murmur: "Little Rice Bowl, hurry up and marry me. I can't take it anymore."
She'd answered, still naive: "Soon. Just six more months…"
"Too long," he grumbled.
"I'm worried there isn't enough time," she shot back. "I haven't even finalized the renovation plans."
He fell silent, then asked quietly, "Don't you…want to?"
"Want what?" she blinked.
He sighed, rubbing her head with a wry smile. "Wanwan, this is my fault. I've pampered you too much. You're as innocent as a little rabbit. I'm afraid when the day comes, I won't be able to…start."
She finally understood, her cheeks flaming. "We agreed to wait," she stammered.
"We did," he said, laughing under his breath.
Remembering that small episode made her eyes sting. She wasn't oblivious—she knew what men in their early twenties were like. Even if she hadn't eaten pork, she'd at least seen a pig run. But she had her principles, or stubbornness. She didn't want her parents to think her frivolous or ill-bred. It might have sounded fussy to others, but it was a knot in her heart.
When he looked a little frustrated, he'd go burn off energy on the court, never once pushing her. She felt guilty, but thought, We're getting married soon anyway. I'll make it up to him for the rest of our lives.
He used to say she wanted nothing, like some ethereal Little Dragon Girl untouched by earthly dust. Back then she hadn't finished The Return of the Condor Heroes. She didn't know that the pure heroine—who loved only Yang Guo—would later be defiled, her jade stained. She didn't know she herself might be stumbling toward a similar fate, written in some stubborn script.
Now she regretted it—regretted it bitterly. Why be so rigid, so foolish? If she'd known heaven would be so stingy with happiness, she would have given herself to him long ago. And the wedding—what nonsense about a ceremony being vital to a woman, that to rush it would leave a life-long regret. It's all pageantry, soothing ourselves and performing for others. They could have gone to the registry, paid a small fee, taken a photo, and walked out with two red booklets. That would have been enough.
But now, it was too late to want anything.
To manufacture the pretense of sleep, she sat in darkness. The cozy decor vanished into black; only loneliness remained. People feel most alone when they're fragile, and there was no one she could lean on.
Her two closest friends were unavailable—one abroad on her honeymoon, the other away on a training program. She knew one phone call would bring them running, ready to hold her and console her. But to what end? Words of comfort couldn't bring Wang Xiao back. Besides, they had their own lives. She couldn't marry anymore—fine. But she wouldn't ruin a friend's honeymoon. She still remembered Milan's shining eyes when she'd described their itinerary. And Sisi—so guileless that she'd cry herself raw and fly back immediately. No. That wasn't what she needed. Or maybe it was—but she refused to be that selfish.
Family? She had no luck there. When she was three, her mother—said to be beautiful and flirtatious—abandoned her and her father for a Hong Kong tycoon. Her father, gutted by the betrayal, became a different man, pouring himself into the pursuit of money. As his bank account grew, he walked farther away from his daughter. She tried everything to win his attention and failed.
Later she learned why: he despised her because she was growing into her mother's face. Self-loathing and resentment had seeped into his bones. No matter how rich or respected he became, one look at that familiar face—summoning the memory of being scorned and left—made his pride curl up and hide. To protect it, he preferred to live without a daughter.
When she was eight, her grandmother took her in, and the dim corridor of her life finally met a window. With her father, there had been material abundance and spiritual drought. With Grandma, she was warm again.
At first, to suit Lin Wan's taste, Grandma even learned delicate southern dishes from a young neighbor who'd married up from Suzhou. She sewed dresses under her floral reading glasses, embroidering blossoms and butterflies so vivid that even girls in store-bought princess frocks stared in awe. Grandma's hands were magic; Lin Wan envied them. But Grandma patted her granddaughter's fingers and said, Your hands are clever, too. Look at those drawings. When Lin Wan won a prize in the school art contest, Grandma was even happier than she was—telling everyone until the neighbors all called her "little painter."
Grandma doted on her, but she didn't spoil her. Having seen what became of Lin Wan's mother, she warned her granddaughter to respect herself, to keep to the straight path—one misstep could become a lifetime's regret. Lin Wan half-understood; she only knew not to date the street punks like the neighbor's sister did.
Grandma used to say her greatest wish was simply to live longer, to be with her granddaughter. But she was old and worn from a lifetime of toil. In the following years, the hospital became a second home. She held on for ten more years, then passed away on the eve of Lin Wan's college entrance exam. Her eyes were open when she went. She must have regretted not seeing her granddaughter admitted to university, not seeing her find a good man to entrust her life to, not seeing her wear the red wedding dress newly stitched by those tired hands. People wish for so much. Reality can be cruel.
Back then, Lin Wan felt the sky collapse. When the coffin was lowered, she would've leaped in after it if the adults hadn't held her back. Without Grandma, she was a lost lamb. Then she remembered the last thing Grandma had told her: Live well. She didn't know what that meant, so she ransacked her memory of Grandma's earnest teachings and did her best to follow them.
Soon after, she started university in a major she liked and made two best friends—Milan, lively and outgoing, and Ding Sisi, innocent and sweet. They shared a dorm though they were in different programs—Milan in marketing, Sisi in computer science, Lin Wan in industrial design. Different majors, different temperaments—but they fit together perfectly. They ate, shopped, gossiped, snuck glances at handsome boys, and sometimes bickered heatedly over trivial things. The days were noisy and bright. Lin Wan was content. She wasn't alone anymore.
And then she met Wang Xiao—the handsome boy with the sunlit smile, all warmth and daylight. He stepped into her life carrying sunshine, and for a while, every day was clear and blue.
Until the car crash ended it all.
She lay in bed for a long time, sifting through the faces and moments that had shaped her. Sometimes memories were a grace—you could pull them close and be less alone. But sometimes they only deepen the hollow, the whiplash between then and now, leaving you raw and unmoored.
She groped for her phone on the nightstand. Dead black screen. It had been out of power for days. She didn't bother looking for the charger. She'd realized she no longer wanted to talk. The loneliness hurt, but she wanted to shoulder every second of it by herself.
Maybe some unconscious need to punish herself: Wang Xiao was under the earth now—cold, damp, dark, and alone. She was still alive; she had no right to be comfortable. So she would avoid warmth and sunlight and people. Later, when she looked back on those days, she wondered why—despite the crushing grief—she hadn't followed him. After much thought, she found two reasons: a buried seam of stubborn strength, and a thin, stubborn thread of unwillingness to yield.