After all, dogs never hold grudges
"Come here, Lizi, come to your uncle!"
Ji Shulang sprawled sideways on the dark gray fabric sofa, his long legs draped over one armrest, waving at Lizi, who was lying quietly on the carpet on the other side.
Lizi's ears twitched; he lifted his eyelids briefly and then did nothing more, clearly not wanting to bother with this annoying person.
"Ji Shulang, let me remind you again: Lizi is my dog." Wen Shaoyu uncrossed his legs and lazily raised his eyes to Ji Shulang. "Stop giving yourself strange titles all day long."
"Buddy, be reasonable—who started calling him uncle?" Ji Shulang refused to back down, sitting up with a jerk. "Wasn't it you? Just say it—wasn't it you?"
Wen Shaoyu fell silent, pushed up his slipping half-rim glasses, and lowered his head again.
"Hey~ no comeback, huh."
Ji Shulang's leg was still propped on the armrest; he tried to stand but couldn't, gravity pulling him back into place, so he gave up and lay flat.
"That year you two were childhood sweethearts, playing me for a fool! Wen Shaoyu, Wen Shaoyu, I've found out that you had designs on my sister from way back!"
Ji Shulang pulled a neck pillow under his head, forcing his head up to see Wen Shaoyu's gloomy face. "If it weren't for that night I couldn't sleep because I had to pee and happened to catch you two holding hands, I'd really think you were just being a smart mouth to annoy me."
"I'd have to be crazy to bother with you." Wen Shaoyu said impatiently.
Ji Shulang was used to being snapped at; he pursed his lips and continued, "If you weren't crazy, why would you keep wanting to go to the UK?"
The air suddenly stilled. This time, Wen Shaoyu could no longer pretend.
The characters and data on the computer screen blurred into illegibility. He took off his glasses, placed them upside down on the desk, closed his eyes, and massaged his brow.
"Ji Shulang, I'll say it again: my business trips are normal work exchanges, not specifically to go looking for anyone."
"...No news for so many years—who could find her? You have news?"
"No." Ji Shulang's voice dropped. "When Grandpa passed away, even my uncle couldn't reach them, let alone me."
Seeing Wen Shaoyu's serious expression, Ji Shulang immediately dropped his teasing tone, sat up straight on the sofa, and said, "And I didn't say you were going to look for someone. See, you got worked up again."
Then he didn't forget to call on a peacemaker to lighten the mood: "Right, Lizi? Look at your dad's quick temper—hasn't changed after all these years."
Wen Shaoyu didn't respond, his attention returning to the screen. He hadn't worn glasses originally; in his freshman year, he often studied on his tablet after lights out to switch majors. After one semester, he'd switched majors and also become nearsighted.
Fortunately, his prescription wasn't strong. Without glasses, the data in front of him blurred into a mess of tiny insects covering the screen—he couldn't see clearly or understand. Soon he drifted off, and everything before his eyes flashed back to scenes from his youth that he could never forget.
The night she was afraid of the dark and dared not go to the bathroom; the drizzly rain when she was forced to say insincere sweet words to him to keep a puppy; the time he caught her crying with red eyes from homesickness.
And then... then came all kinds of bitterness, about her or about him.
Wen Shaoyu suddenly reached out and snapped his laptop shut with a loud click, making Ji Shulang jump.
Ji Shulang shrank his neck, afraid of being caught in the crossfire: "What are you doing? Venting your anger on me?"
He didn't answer, just got up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. His voice was so calm it made Ji Shulang uneasy: "Almost eight years, Lizi has gone from a puppy to an old dog that pants after a few steps. Who is obligated to wait forever?"
Behind him, Ji Shulang shook his head like a rattle-drum.
But Lizi seemed to understand. He stood up, slowly walked over to Wen Shaoyu, and brushed his fluffy tail back and forth against Wen Shaoyu's calf, like a golden feather duster.
Disturbed by the strange sensation on his leg, Wen Shaoyu bent down, cupped Lizi's big, silly grinning face, and looked closely.
Once a dog reaches adulthood, its body size doesn't change much, but as years pass, no matter how carefully you care for it, the fur around its black bean-like eyes fades.
Maybe not just the eyes—Lizi's mouth, nose, and chest fur all looked dull under the light.
When Wen Shaoyu first noticed this, he was terrified.
A ten-year-old dog, with all its bodily functions starting to decline. Maybe one morning he would wake up and Lizi would be gone forever—Lizi, the dog abandoned just like him, who had depended on each other for so many years.
He dared not think: if he lost Lizi too, what would be left of that unforgettable memory and that person?
Frowning, Wen Shaoyu poked Lizi's head and asked softly, "What about you? Eight years—are you still angry with her? Will you forgive her for leaving us?"
Lizi stuck out his tongue, panting, and gave a low bark at Wen Shaoyu.
Wen Shaoyu scoffed, laughing at his own obsession. No matter how smart Lizi was, he was still a dog—dogs don't have that many worries.
But Lizi suddenly turned and walked away. From his dog bed in the corner, he fetched a nearly unrecognizable cotton ball that had lost its color, then returned to Wen Shaoyu's side.
The thing was very worn, washed to its base color, the fabric fraying at the edges. If not for the two slightly green leaves, if not for the fact that he remembered Ji Shuhe had specially chosen this toy for Lizi, he wouldn't have been able to tell what it was.
Lizi lowered his head, spat out his most treasured toy to Wen Shaoyu, then sat down obediently, tilting his head to look at him.
Wen Shaoyu felt he understood: the dog meant he remembered and he missed him. In short, he didn't blame her.
"...Idiot."
Wen Shaoyu clutched the grimy toy, and after a long while, he whispered two words.
Probably not referring to Lizi, but even if he was, it didn't matter—after all, dogs never hold grudges.
Ji Shulang didn't understand the silent exchange between man and dog by the window. He sensed this part wasn't suitable to delve into.
He knew that Ji Shuhe was a person Wen Shaoyu couldn't mention much.
It was strange—though he had been there for those two years too, Ji Shulang couldn't understand how his sister had become irreplaceable to Wen Shaoyu.
By the time he truly understood, it was already too late. Ji Shuhe was taken away, Wen Shaoyu became a stone that couldn't be cracked open. He wanted to help, but fate was against him, and then came Wen Shaoyu's even harsher years.
Better not to mention it. If eight years weren't enough, there were ten or fifteen—those bitter memories would eventually be replaced by new ones.