People are destined to be apart...
Ji Shuhe regretted it the moment she said it.
It was far too intimate. The abrupt tackiness felt particularly ill-suited for this moment, and she had only meant to keep Wen Shaoyu from forcing a smile.
Once again, she was caught in an awkward dilemma.
Ji Shuhe silently scolded herself. She had unconsciously let her guard down as she spoke more, forgetting that more words meant more mistakes, and now she had fallen into her own trap.
Leaving now would be inappropriate, but staying felt like ants crawling all over her. The ticking of the wall clock's second hand echoed in the room, each click striking her heart, making her wish she could reach out and turn back time by a few minutes.
"Ji Shuhe." Wen Shaoyu called her name softly, nothing more.
Ji Shuhe looked up reflexively. "Hmm? What is it?"
Wen Shaoyu thought for a moment longer before speaking slowly. "Do you think people are destined to be apart?"
A strange question.
At any other time, Ji Shuhe would have answered without hesitation, "Yes." She firmly believed that life is a long journey, where every person is merely a companion for a certain stretch, and that separation—whether by choice or by death—is something everyone must experience countless times.
But Wen Shaoyu looked terrible.
When his mother passed, he was probably too young to grasp the fear of sudden loss. But now, just months away from adulthood, and with Granny Zheng as the only family he truly acknowledged, he must be scared.
Ji Shuhe didn't want to be too absolute. "Hard to say. But I hope that no matter what kind of separation, there can be a reunion in the end."
"I'm afraid to think about it." Wen Shaoyu suddenly grabbed his hair in frustration, bent over, and buried his head in his arms. "These past few days, I've been thinking—even if Granny never wakes up, as long as she's still breathing, she's alive. I could find a way to make money to cover all the medical bills. But what if, what if suddenly..."
His voice trailed off, and when it returned, it trembled noticeably. "Like this time she fell ill. She's always taken her medicine, never shown any similar symptoms, but who could have guessed."
"I've thought about it too—what if I hadn't gone out that day, if I'd stayed home. Accompanied her to buy groceries, or just sat here listening to the radio, taken her to the hospital the moment it happened—would the outcome have been different?"
Hearing his words turn bitter, Ji Shuhe immediately stood up and walked over to him. "No, Wen Shaoyu. The outcome has nothing to do with your choices."
"There are no 'what ifs' in the world. Don't let those thoughts affect you."
She crouched in front of him, hesitated, then placed her hand on his back. "You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of Granny Zheng. And you're not alone. At least No. 86 is still here, and me... and my brother."
Wen Shaoyu looked up, his eyes red, but his gaze was intense and earnest. "You won't leave? You'll always be here?"
"Mm. I won't leave. I'll always be here."
Ji Shuhe repeated his words like coaxing a child. She knew she couldn't even decide her own fate, so she shouldn't be making such promises. But the situation was special; if she didn't pull him out of this emotional quagmire, his temper would only sink him deeper.
Ji Shuhe looked up. On the wall behind Wen Shaoyu hung many photos of his mother in her youth. The two shared similar features—more accurately, their facial structure and contours resembled Granny Zheng.
Standing in front of his departed loved one's photos, even a simple promise became laden with meaning. Ji Shuhe thought, if only for the sake of doing what's best for Wen Shaoyu, should she ever break her word, they would surely understand.
Following her gaze, Wen Shaoyu turned. In the dim lamplight, the mother in the photos, though young, had eyes that seemed gentle and kind.
His memories of his mother had grown fuzzy. Among the photos, only one included him—his mother holding him, with Granny beside them.
As for Grandpa, he was barely even a figure in others' conversations. Everyone said he was a kind man, with a good temper, good family, and even better job—so many good things that his fate turned bad.
After that night, the long summer continued, and Ji Shuhe began to see less of Wen Shaoyu again.
But she often thought back to that evening.
She thought of her promise, of how they had gazed at the photos of Wen Shaoyu's loved ones, wondering if, in his moments of exhaustion, they would comfort him in his dreams.
Until...
One day, Ji Shuhe came home from school to find Granny Zheng's door open. The photos that once hung on the wall had been taken down, replaced by three black-and-white funeral portraits.
So people are destined to be apart.
Her grandparents led the family to offer incense and give condolence money. Wen Shaoyu's father was there too. As the adults exchanged pleasantries, Ji Shuhe could only watch Wen Shaoyu with worry.
He had lost more weight, his face gaunt. His hair was unkempt, covered in a grayish dust—incense ash or tin foil ash—and he looked visibly haggard.
Ji Shuhe wanted to talk to him, to say that while grief over a loved one's death is uncontrollable, he still needed to eat well. But he looked like a puppet drained of its soul.
With mourners coming and going downstairs, and Wen Shaoyu not leaving his room, she couldn't find a chance to speak with him alone. Frustrated, she kept glancing into his room as she passed, and in the end, she had no choice but to send him a message.
It was the least effective method at that moment. Ji Shuhe didn't know when Wen Shaoyu would see the message, or if by the time he did, he'd have collapsed from exhaustion and be in the hospital.
There was no reply. Until the third day after school, Ji Shuhe picked up her phone from the podium. As soon as she turned it on and connected to the internet, the lock screen displayed a notification from her special alerts.
It was from Wen Shaoyu, sent not long ago.
"I'm fine."
That wasn't even a brush-off; it was a blatant lie.
Ji Shuhe hurried home. The wreaths that had been piled at the door were gone. She walked further inside—Granny Zheng's room was dark, the door locked again.
But the light was on in her grandparents' room, which had been closed for days. The light split the outer living room in two.
Ji Shuhe's heart skipped a beat.
With Granny Zheng gone, Wen Shaoyu was still a minor and in his senior year. If his father had any conscience, he should take him back to his place to look after him.
That likely meant...
Ji Shuhe answered her grandmother's questions absently, her mind heavy. Clutching her backpack straps, she went upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, Lizi perked up at the sound of footsteps. Ji Shuhe's gaze followed the little dog, and she saw that Wen Shaoyu's room was brightly lit.