“But I didn’t mean anything else.”
Realizing her words might be ambiguous, Qiu Yiran hurriedly explained.
She didn’t see watching the Northern Lights as some kind of consolation she had to offer before things ended.
She just really wanted to accompany Li Wuhui to complete this.
It wasn’t a last supper, nor a farewell ceremony.
“I know.” Li Wuhui said.
Qiu Yiran breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed Li Wuhui hadn’t misunderstood her.
“But Qiu Yiran.” Li Wuhui spoke again. “Don’t feel psychological pressure about this because of me.”
As she said this, her gaze hung very low.
Her voice was also very low, as if she were trying her hardest to hold something back.
“Anyway, we won’t see each other again after this.”
The hospital room bustled with people hurrying by, each one’s face etched with anxiety.
Qiu Yiran fell silent for a moment.
She knew Li Wuhui was right. She gripped the bedsheet tighter in her hand.
“It’s precisely because we might never see each other again…”
She said softly.
“So we have to finish everything we want to do, so we won’t have regrets later, right?”
Li Wuhui didn’t respond to her question right away.
She still kept her gaze lowered.
Her face was half-lit by the light, half in shadow, her thoughts unreadable.
Dozens of seconds later, as if she’d suddenly figured something out, she smiled faintly.
“Qiu Yiran, sometimes I really don’t understand you.”
She looked up at her again, her expression a mix of loneliness and helplessness.
“You’re the one who said before that we should go to Paris in a faster way. But now that I’ve agreed, you’re the one backing out.”
“I…” Qiu Yiran faltered.
She clenched her fingers. In a way, she couldn’t deny it.
“I just don’t want to leave anything unfinished. Otherwise, it might get even messier later.”
In truth, Qiu Yiran’s stamina hadn’t fully recovered. As she said this, she still felt her mind foggy, but she forced her eyelids open, trying to see Li Wuhui’s expression clearly.
She felt puzzled.
Li Wuhui had always been so driven and purposeful. She wouldn’t easily give up on herself.
Yet now, the one who wanted to end the trip was Li Wuhui.
This made Qiu Yiran sad—not because they would part sooner, but because she felt sorry for Li Wuhui like this. She knew that if things ended here, she herself would return to calm, but Li Wuhui would struggle to move on from that incident.
“Is that so?”
Li Wuhui spoke again.
She calmly interrupted Qiu Yiran’s thoughts.
But perhaps sensing her determination, Li Wuhui didn’t argue further.
“Then we’ll talk about it once you’re better.”
Hearing Li Wuhui’s yielding response, Qiu Yiran finally relaxed a little.
She didn’t argue with Li Wuhui anymore either. Her eyelids grew heavy, but she didn’t dare fall asleep again like before—
This was a foreign country. She didn’t want to leave Li Wuhui alone again.
So she simply lay quietly on the pillow.
She didn’t speak, didn’t close her eyes.
She kept her eyes open in a stiff, wooden way, sneaking glances at Li Wuhui.
But when Li Wuhui looked at her,
She dumbly shifted her gaze away, to watch the water dripping from her IV bag.
“Keep sleeping.”
Li Wuhui always keenly sensed her state. She came over and felt her forehead.
“What are you forcing yourself for when you’re still running a fever?”
As she spoke, Li Wuhui touched her hand, then frowned slightly. “Why is it so cold?”
“Is it?” Qiu Yiran blinked blankly. She hadn’t noticed herself.
“Does it feel swollen?”
Li Wuhui looked up at the IV stand, thought for a moment, and slowed the drip a bit.
As she sat back down, she couldn’t help but remind her. “If you feel uncomfortable, tell me.”
Qiu Yiran nodded.
She hesitated, closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again, her tone worried.
“Li Wuhui, why don’t you sleep for a bit too?”
So much had happened tonight. It wasn’t just Qiu Yiran—Li Wuhui must have expended a lot of energy and emotion too.
How could she keep going without rest?
“You sleep.”
Li Wuhui held back any sign of fatigue. “I’ll keep watch.”
“If you don’t sleep, who will drive tomorrow?” Qiu Yiran asked. She looked up at the large bag of IV fluid. “It’ll take a while longer. Why don’t you sleep first?”
“I’ll nap once you’re asleep.” Li Wuhui patiently explained.
Qiu Yiran parted her lips.
She had more to say.
But Li Wuhui crossed her arms, her expression brooking no argument. “Close your eyes.”
Her tone was almost commanding.
Like a conditioned reflex, Qiu Yiran immediately shut her eyes.
Probably due to the medication, as soon as her eyes closed, sleepiness crashed over her unceremoniously.
Qiu Yiran’s head spun.
But this time, she didn’t sleep soundly.
She could feel Li Wuhui watching her. Or perhaps from some subconscious worry, she felt like she’d fallen asleep, only to float in the air. Not long after, she jolted awake as if from a nightmare.
And in the midst of her pounding heart and gasping breaths—
A hand reached from the bedside and gently patted her back.
In a soothing rhythm.
Very gentle.
Perhaps a chain reaction from the nightmare, Qiu Yiran involuntarily shuddered.
The hand paused, hovering for a moment.
Then it gently patted her back again.
It soothed her slowly, accompanied by Li Wuhui’s weary voice.
“What are you afraid of?”
The woman let out a very faint, barely noticeable yawn. Her voice drifted into Qiu Yiran’s ears.
“I’m right here by your side.”
Such a simple sentence.
Said many times before.
Each time, it made Qiu Yiran’s nose sting.
This time was no exception.
She sniffled and scooted toward the edge of the bed.
The patting hand suddenly stopped.
Li Wuhui thought Qiu Yiran hadn’t fully woken up and was rejecting her even in her dreams.
She paused for a moment.
Then slowly withdrew her hand.
She planned to wait until Qiu Yiran slept deeper before massaging her again, but then she heard Qiu Yiran’s muffled voice. “Come sleep up here.”
Li Wuhui froze.
Thinking she hadn’t been heard, Qiu Yiran scooted over more, then called her again. “Li Wuhui.”
“Come sleep up here. There’s space on this side.” Qiu Yiran repeated softly, then explained a bit awkwardly.
“It’s so cold. Sitting like that all night isn’t good.”
There was still no movement from Li Wuhui at the bedside.
Qiu Yiran sniffled again and added, “And your back isn’t great. Sitting all night will make you sore tomorrow.”
“Is that okay?” Li Wuhui sounded hesitant.
“It’s a special situation.” Qiu Yiran stressed. “You don’t need to worry so much.”
Even if they had decided to part ways, in this unavoidable circumstance, ensuring the other’s health with proper rest—even if somewhat comfortable—couldn’t count as crossing a line.
Li Wuhui sighed. “I mean your leg.”
Qiu Yiran stiffened.
After a moment, she slowly said “oh.” “It’s not an external injury. It’ll be fine.”
She explained further. “And it doesn’t hurt much now anyway.”
With that,
Qiu Yiran turned on her side, draping her left leg over her right to leave half the bed’s space for Li Wuhui.
At the same time,
She made sure to keep enough space for her IV arm, so it wouldn’t get bumped.
This should be enough, right?
Qiu Yiran thought anxiously.
But Li Wuhui at the bedside still didn’t move, seemingly still hesitating on how to convince her.
Qiu Yiran thought for a moment and said stubbornly,
“If you keep standing there without moving, I’ll sleep in this position all night too.”
Finally convinced by this reasoning, Li Wuhui didn’t say much more. She just reached out again—to adjust the drip speed for her.
Then she took off her jacket.
She lay on the single hospital bed very carefully and cautiously.
The single bed was already quite narrow. Though they were both slim, they were tall, so squeezing onto one bed left little room.
But they lay back-to-back, with several centimeters between them, as if both were especially afraid of pressing against the other.
Especially Li Wuhui—she was almost falling off, as if afraid that any slight movement would break Qiu Yiran’s other leg.
So even after getting into bed, she still curled her arms carefully around herself, covering only the corner of the blanket.
—This had been their norm during the period before their breakup. They couldn’t even sleep holding each other closely.
“Li Wuhui.” Unable to sleep after tossing and turning, Qiu Yiran spoke up again. “You cried a lot today.”
“I know.” Li Wuhui said from behind her, her voice drifting as if from far away. “Go to sleep.”
She deliberately avoided the topic. “Don’t talk so much.”
Qiu Yiran fell silent.
But she didn’t close her eyes.
She stared out the hospital room’s glass window at the heavy snow falling outside. After some hesitation, she still spoke up.
“I rarely see you cry like this.”
And it had happened multiple times, so many tears in one day. This differed greatly from the Li Wuhui she had known before.
Li Wuhui gave no further response.
Her breathing evened out.
As if she’d fallen asleep.
Qiu Yiran closed her eyes and exhaled, saying no more.
But just as she thought Li Wuhui had drifted off deeply, Li Wuhui spoke again.
“I know.”
Three very soft words, almost inaudible amid the noisy hospital room.
Qiu Yiran hadn’t fallen asleep yet.
The painkillers in the IV had dulled the pain in her nerves considerably.
“You never cried like this before today.” After hesitating, Qiu Yiran asked again. “Why?”
“Before?”
“Yeah.” Qiu Yiran kept her voice low. “Back when I… right after my amputation, you were always comforting and supporting me. You didn’t cry like this today.”
She rarely brought up the amputation from back then on her own. It had always been a sensitive topic between them, as if whoever mentioned it first would plunge into an abyss.
“Everyone who saw me was sad, afraid to say the wrong thing in front of me. They’d just make eye contact, their eyes would turn red, and they barely dared speak. Even Feng Yu was like that—she cried a lot back then…”
“Only you hardly shed tears over it.”
“I don’t know.” After a long pause, Li Wuhui answered, her voice sounding casual.
“Maybe I felt I didn’t have the right to cry.”
“Why would you think that?” Qiu Yiran’s brows furrowed tightly.
But she quickly realized she’d asked a question with an obvious answer.
Li Wuhui didn’t reply.
This made Qiu Yiran even sadder.
She gazed at the heavy snow outside the window and suddenly thought of the snow in Paris—how they met, fell in love, and parted in the snow there.
The ending wasn’t good, but the snow was still beautiful.
Qiu Yiran couldn’t help but press on. “Then why did you cry so much today? Do you have the right now?”
“Yeah.” Li Wuhui’s answer was straightforward. “Because you abandoned me.”
Qiu Yiran froze.
“So you’re at fault.” Li Wuhui seemed to have her own logic that made sense to her.
“I can cry.”
It sounded like a joke, but also like the truth. “Because now I’m the victim.”
It felt more like a way to deflect further questions, masking her real feelings with humor.
Qiu Yiran fell silent.
“Go back to sleep.” Li Wuhui urged tiredly. “Don’t say things that don’t matter.”
Qiu Yiran pressed her lips together.
Logically, she shouldn’t disturb Li Wuhui’s sleep anymore, nor keep talking.
But she took a deep breath and mustered her courage to say it.
“But I’m not the victim.”
Li Wuhui didn’t respond, but her breathing hitched for half a beat.
Qiu Yiran knew she hadn’t fallen asleep that quickly. “At least, I’ve never been your victim.”
Li Wuhui said nothing.
“Li Wuhui.”
Qiu Yiran called her name, emphasizing each word in the night. “Back then, with that incident, we were both victims.”
With that, she held her breath.
Waiting for Li Wuhui’s response.
But to her disappointment—two or three minutes passed, and Li Wuhui didn’t reply again.
It was just like she had really fallen asleep.
But Qiu Yiran knew—
Li Wuhui hadn’t fallen asleep.
She just couldn’t give the response she wanted.
In that accident back then—
Li Wuhui sat in the driver’s seat and twisted the steering wheel hard one last time to avoid that sports car, only to end up watching helplessly as the truck crashed into them…
The difference between facing the impact head-on and taking it from behind was huge.
So the trauma she carried from that day had never been any less than Qiu Yiran’s.
And Qiu Yiran had no way to help with it either. She could only sigh and close her eyes.
–
Nothing else happened that night.
Qiu Yiran slept straight through until dawn.
By then, Li Wuhui was no longer sleeping beside her. She had returned from somewhere with a medicine bag and a stack of test reports.
Seeing her wake up groggily, Li Wuhui came over to feel her forehead and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Looks like the fever’s gone. We’ll take your temperature again in a bit.”
Qiu Yiran nodded listlessly. “Does that mean I can be discharged?”
“Pretty much.” Li Wuhui poured her a cup of hot water from the room, watched her sip it down slowly, then said, “The test results from yesterday are mostly back. Nothing major. The phantom pain was probably just from the fever.”
“I figured as much.” Qiu Yiran took a sip of water and said easily, “Just a fever, nothing more.”
“Are you proud of that?” Li Wuhui asked suddenly.
Qiu Yiran froze.
She clutched the disposable paper cup in her hand, at a loss.
Li Wuhui sighed, softening her tone as if afraid of scaring her. “Just a fever?”
Qiu Yiran pressed her lips together and said nothing.
“Even someone with two legs could die if a fever gets bad enough.”
Li Wuhui explained patiently. “You should know that, right?”
For some reason.
Hearing Li Wuhui say “even someone with two legs,” Qiu Yiran suddenly found it kind of funny—as if people with two legs were the real freaks.
“Qiu Yiran.”
While she spaced out, Li Wuhui narrowed her eyes and studied her for a moment. Sensing she wasn’t listening, she emphasized again,
“You need to take better care of yourself.”
Qiu Yiran snapped back to attention, took an awkward sip of water, and said hastily,
“Got it.”
–
