Chapter 9: Sweet Porridge Part 2

The afternoon was more rehearsals. Miao Zhu got home exhausted and flopped on the living room sofa for a bit. Aunt Huang had taken leave, so the house was quiet. She dozed until past eight at night, got up to feed the fish, still felt wiped out, showered, and went to bed.

Miao Zhu thought it was because she hadn’t rested well at lunch that she was so fatigued. But in the middle of the night, the discomfort intensified—her breathing felt scorching hot, every joint ached like it was being pricked by needles. She couldn’t fall back asleep.

Dazedly getting out of bed, Miao Zhu took her temperature and discovered she had a high fever.

The onset was so sudden, like the flu. She took fever reducers and, just in case, an anti-flu miracle drug, then returned to bed.

In her haze, time blurred. Suddenly her stomach churned, and Miao Zhu dragged herself to the bathroom, vomiting up all the medicine she’d taken.

By then, dawn was breaking outside. In the mirror, Miao Zhu’s feverish eyes were bloodshot. In this state, she couldn’t work. She messaged the troupe for sick leave, then called the family driver to take her to the hospital.

The driver took Miao Zhu to Pearl Hospital, the closest to Moon Reflection Villa. She got emergency care—no wait. She finished checks in the exam room quickly. When the lab results came, the doctor prescribed flu-specific meds.

A nurse escorted Miao Zhu for IV fluids. Another nurse came by, saying they’d arranged a private VIP room for her to rest better.

Miao Zhu’s head throbbed terribly. She thanked them and sank onto the hospital bed in a daze. The nurse kindly drew the curtains, dimmed the lights, and under the meds’ effect, Miao Zhu drifted off.

Her sleep was restless, broken by sweat. She woke to the nurse removing the IV. Miao Zhu opened her bleary eyes; the room was dimly lit, the nurse tidying the IV bag.

Her gaze slowly focused. Someone sat on the sofa not far from the bed, but the nurse blocked most of her view—she couldn’t make out who.

“Miss Miao, you’re awake?” The nurse noticed her eyes open.

Miao Zhu still had a headache; her voice was hoarse as she thanked her again.

The nurse said: “No problem. Rest well. The dean specially instructed that this room will be reserved for you during your illness.”

The dean? Who? Miao Zhu didn’t recall knowing the dean here.

The nurse turned and left. Now the person on the sofa came fully into view.

The door clicked shut softly. Mu Shanyi set down her work tablet, rose from the sofa, and approached the bed.

Miao Zhu’s face still held a sickly flush, her dark hair splayed out, making her look pitifully fragile.

“You were fine the night before last.” Mu Shanyi’s voice was gentle and soft, not wanting to disturb the sick one.

It was because of Mu Shanyi that she received such special care at the hospital.

“The fever’s gone down. I’m much better.” Miao Zhu sat up groggily on the bed. “Sister A-Heng, why are you here?”

Mu Shanyi: “Li Baozhu saw you at the hospital.”

Miao Zhu pieced it together: “Li Baozhu is the dean here?”

“Yeah, she is.” Mu Shanyi raised her hand to slowly brighten the room lights, leaning over to look at Miao Zhu: “Hungry? Got an appetite?”

Miao Zhu met her gaze for a moment. Today’s Mu Shanyi was so amiable, almost tender—Miao Zhu wasn’t used to it and lowered her eyes: “A little hungry.”

She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

Near the window, on the dining table, was a meal box Mu Shanyi had brought. Miao Zhu threw off the covers and got out of bed. Weak from the fever, Mu Shanyi stayed by her side, only supporting her when necessary—no excessive contact.

They slowly reached the table. Miao Zhu saw the logo on the box—it was from a private kitchen she and Sheng Xingran both loved.

Mu Shanyi opened the lid and took out the fresh vegetables and white porridge, arranging them neatly.

The box was from the private kitchen, but the veggie plates weren’t—exquisite celadon dishes shaped like rose petals made the vibrant veggies even more appetizing. The porridge was simmered to a soft creaminess. Miao Zhu’s taste hadn’t fully returned, but after one sip, she frowned in confusion.

Mu Shanyi seemed to read her mind. She pulled out the opposite chair and sat: “You said once, when you’re sick, you need sweet porridge.”

That was many years ago, Miao Zhu thought—probably seven or eight years back. Ni Xiaoying and Sheng Hong had gone abroad to celebrate Sheng Xingran’s birthday with her, then suggested visiting Mu Shanyi in the neighboring country.

Sheng Xingran had dragged Miao Zhu along. On the first night at the Mu Residence, she came down with a fever.

Everyone else was resting. Miao Zhu took fever meds and stayed by the stove, cooking herself sweet porridge.

As the porridge neared completion, Mu Shanyi entered the kitchen.

Miao Zhu remembered telling her then that when she was little and sick, Grandma always made her sweet porridge. After meds and porridge, she’d recover quickly.

Miao Zhu stirred the porridge in the porcelain bowl. That year, at ten, during Spring Festival, she and Grandma had promised she’d return home for summer vacation. But right before leaving, Miao Ling stopped her. She couldn’t go back—she had to accompany Sheng Xingran abroad for studies.

Grandma passed that summer; Miao Zhu hadn’t even made it back for a last goodbye.

Miao Ling had always feared cavities and rarely let her have sweets. Besides Grandma, no one else ever made her sweet porridge.

Miao Zhu had never imagined that Mu Shanyi would remember those words even now.

Author’s Note:

Mu Shanyi: We can start dating first; feelings can be cultivated slowly.

Miao Zhu: Got it, mistress.