Having worked overtime until 2 AM the previous night, Jing Qichi woke up close to noon the next day. Still lying in bed, he messaged Song Cong asking if he wanted to return to Tianhe—a habit naturally formed after working in Beijing, where if one person planned to go back, they would always check with the other, and if the timing worked out, they would buy tickets together. Song Cong first replied that he was preparing to leave for a rural medical outreach activity organized by the academy over the next few days, followed quickly by a second message: “Let me ask Du Man, I think she said she’s going back this week.”
Jing Qichi sent back an “okay.” While he was washing up, Song Cong sent another message: “Du Man went to attend an expert lecture, forget about her.”
Jing Qichi laughed and quickly typed back, “I wasn’t planning to consider her anyway, you’re the one who wanted me to.”
The chat interface showed “typing” for a long time, but no new message came through.
Once in a century—this guy was actually overthinking it.
Qiu Yang’s room door was tightly shut, which was understandable since he had been drinking until dawn before returning. Jing Qichi bought his ticket and left a note on the dining table—”Gone home, call if needed.” Qiu Yang had been deeply moved upon hearing that Jiang Sen’s phone had been on vibrate 24/7 since the laboratory’s preparation phase, and decided to copy this practice exactly. After all, in his mind, Jiang Sen was like Bill Gates or Bezos, a role model of success right before his eyes. What he didn’t know was that Sir Jiang was naturally a light sleeper with abundant energy, and after drinking the same amount, he would be replying to emails by 8 AM—cellular differences were truly mystical.
On the way to the station, he received Song Cong’s reply: “We’re all classmates going the same way, shouldn’t we look out for each other?”
Jing Qichi quickly offered him an out: “We should, absolutely should.”
Actually, he had felt this way for a long time—compared to Qi Qi, Du Man seemed more suitable for Song Cong. Beyond the usual elements of measuring compatibility like appearance and personality, at a deeper level of ideals and aspirations, Du Man and Song Cong were completely aligned. Perhaps their initial reasons for choosing this profession weren’t the same—Huan Er said Du Man did it to prove herself worthy of living in the staff quarters, but after persistently proving herself for five years, even after leaving those quarters, she was still pursuing excellence in her field. Du Man and Song Cong had arrived at the same destination—to be good doctors, good doctors who could save lives and help more people.
Having grown up together since childhood, Jing Qichi understood his brother and roughly knew what kind of girl could accompany him through life’s journey.
He hadn’t said anything before because when he realized this, Song Cong was with Qi Qi; as for why he wasn’t pointing it out now—watching a clever person either pretend to be or genuinely be confused was endlessly amusing.
Song Cong sent another message: “How are things with you and Huan Er these days?”
Smart people really weren’t good at playing dumb.
Jing Qichi replied, “You knew about Huan Er’s PhD plans already?”
Song Cong had never inquired about their relationship before, and with his straightforward personality, if he had noticed any issues, he would have pointed them out directly. This roundabout approach definitely indicated something he found difficult to explain.
“I heard it from Du Man. Among us three, you’ve always been at the bottom, don’t take it to heart.”
“How am I at the bottom? Do you two even have pay stubs?”
“Boring. Get famous online once and forget about your hometown folks, but I’ve got plenty of dirt on you.”
“Who doesn’t have some ammunition? Might as well go down together.”
Being part of the one-child generation, childhood companions were almost like real brothers. No, in some ways even closer. Without shared obligations for elderly care or entanglements over family inheritance, they could be poor together, bicker, point fingers and say “you’re heartless,” but ultimately all attempts at expressing comfort were received by the other. Jing Qichi thought perhaps he was luckier—his fights with Song Cong happened in their innocent years, like giving each other the cold shoulder for days over a signed football. Since then, they had been each other’s heavy iron shields, silent shields, just as I understand your unspoken intentions.
After returning home, Mother Jing had already prepared lunch. Although well past mealtime, and despite Jing Qichi’s protests that she shouldn’t have waited, mother and son chatted while eating together. After the meal, they did a thorough house cleaning together, sweeping every corner, throwing bedsheets and covers into the washing machine and replacing them with new ones, wiping all the windows in each room clean. Mother Jing suggested going to the supermarket.
Just as they entered the department store, Father Song sent a voice message: “Are you free tonight? If so, let’s have dinner together, a few friends are gathering.”
The message played through Mother Jing’s phone speaker, and before Jing Qichi could stop her, she had already started responding to the receiver, “Qichi’s back, you all go ahead, I won’t join.”
“Why not go?” Jing Qichi, who had been pushing the shopping cart forward, stopped. “Mom, you go ahead, don’t worry about me.”
Father Song sent another message: “Maybe Qichi has his own plans. Come on, I’ll pick you up at six and we’ll go together.”
“Quick, say yes.” Jing Qichi urged, “Uncle Song is waiting.”
He really didn’t want his return home to become a constraint on his mother’s life—dinners, beauty treatments, travel—he hoped her life would be fulfilling and happy, especially since he couldn’t be by her side most of the time.
“Alright then.” Mother Jing led the way to the produce section, “Let’s go there, stock up on food for you.”
“I have plans.”
“What plans? Neither Huan Er nor Song Cong is here.” Mother Jing said without looking at him, continuing to send a voice message to Father Song, “Okay, see you later.”
As mother and son walked forward together, Jing Qichi asked, “Mom, you knew about me and Huan Er?”
He had never directly told his family about their relationship, though of course his mother had never asked either.
“Yes.” Mother Jing fiddled with the Hami melons in the fruit basket, picking two good ones to put in the shopping cart, showing no surprise or other emotions throughout, as if she had no intention of probing deeper.
Jing Qichi found it somewhat amusing, “How did you know?”
“Your Aunt Li Na asked me, and we figured it out together.” Mother Jing glanced at her son, “You better behave yourself. I consider Huan Er like my own daughter—if she suffers any grievances, don’t blame your birth mother for not taking your side.”
“Now we’re talking like real family.” Jing Qichi chuckled.
Whether spoken or unspoken indeed made no difference. Although he wasn’t clear about the scenario or manner in which the two mothers had discussed this matter, their not asking was their way of respecting their children’s autonomy.
“I’m serious.” Mother Jing finished selecting fruits and moved on to vegetables. “Huan Er still has years of PhD studies ahead, it’ll be several years in a flash, this will be challenging for both of you. You need to understand and support each other in everything, especially you—you need to be her pillar of support, understand?”
Like desperately chasing after the last night bus, only to miss it by one step, a feeling of intense frustration pierced his heart. Jing Qichi couldn’t tell if it was anger, resentment, or disappointment, perhaps also blaming himself for being that one step too slow—whatever it was, it was frustrating.
Song Cong knew, Du Man knew, even his mother knew early on—he had become the last one kept in the dark.
Mother Jing seemed to understand his thoughts and asked, “Huan Er didn’t tell you from the start?”
Jing Qichi shook his head, “She only told me yesterday.”
“That girl must have wanted to be one hundred percent certain before telling you.” Mother Jing looked at her son. “Only uncertain decisions need to be discussed. Have you ever seen a hospital hold consultations for every surgery? Since Huan Er wants to do this and it concerns her studies, you just need to support her decision.”
“I’m not unsupportive, I just…” Jing Qichi waved his hand, “Never mind.”
Since her son wouldn’t say more, Mother Jing didn’t press him. She stuffed bags of green beans and tomatoes into his arms, “Go weigh these.”
Jing Qichi obediently complied.
Mother Jing watched his back from several steps away, suddenly feeling that the mischievous little troublemaker had grown up. Of course, a real man would have his worries, but she believed he had the ability to resolve his own concerns.
The mother and son returned to the staff quarters just as Father Song was coming out of the apartment building. Jing Qichi greeted him and pushed his mother forward, “Enjoy your meal, no need to come back early.”
Mother Jing still hesitated, “Why don’t you come with us?”
“He’s not a kid anymore to be brought along.” Father Song laughed, “Stop worrying so much.”