The Last Winter

The chemotherapy had just ended when someone snapped a photo of me in that state and posted it online, captioned: "The bitch got cancer, hahaha." Within ten minutes, my ex-husband—the red-hot celebrity—called. I didn't answer. That night, he stood by my hospital bed, eyes bloodshot, voice trembling: "Claire, you're not sick, right?" I smiled faintly and replied, "Stage four stomach cancer. I don't have much time."

1.

My husband was the wildly popular A-lister, Marcus. We'd been secretly married for eight years. I'd been with him from his days as a nameless extra to the moment he became the center of attention, from an awkward teenager to a media-savvy superstar. I asked him when we could go public. He always said, "Wait a little longer, until I break free from the capital's control." I believed him. But instead of going public, I got one scandal after another. At first, he'd patiently explain. Then he grew impatient: "It's just holding hands, a little eye contact—nothing really happened." "That was arranged by the company. How was I supposed to know she'd call me in the middle of the night?" "What's wrong with giving a gift on Valentine's Day? Don't be so unreasonable, okay?"

I remember two years ago, he saw a coworker hand me a cup of hot milk tea and was so furious he didn't speak to me for three days. Even though I hadn't even accepted it, he refused to listen to my explanation. Now the tables were turned. Holding hands, lingering glances—they were all "nothing." Had he ever thought about how I felt? Who was it this time? Oh, right—the "once-in-a-millennium beauty" who debuted as the center of that talent show: Coco. The internet was flooded with promotions for their new drama, with headlines like "Sweet Eye Contact" and "Adorable Chemistry." The comments were all: "Get together! Get together! Ah! They're so perfect." "A gorgeous couple, wuwuwu, I'm shipping them so hard."

Didn't I feel hurt? Wasn't I jealous?

Last year, every time we met, we'd fight. He'd throw out, "If you can't handle it, get a divorce," and walk away. From then on, we started living apart. He stayed in hotels. But when I got the diagnosis—"Stage Four Stomach Cancer"—the first person I thought of was Marcus. I called him, asking what I should do. After all, we'd been together for twenty-two years, since we were five. He wasn't just my lover; he was family, woven into my very being. But I never expected to hear a woman's coquettish voice on the other end: "Ouch, be gentle." Followed by a muffled laugh. The phone slipped from my hand. I blinked. That laugh—it was Marcus. He'd actually betrayed me? That day, I went crazy. I rushed to the hotel, pounding on the door like a madwoman. He opened it with a towel wrapped around his waist. When he saw me, he frowned. "What are you doing here?" "Who is it?" Coco's voice rang out. Then she came up behind him, wrapped in a bathrobe, and hugged him. "Brother Marcus, who's this?" Marcus looked at me, disgust in his eyes. "My ex-wife." "Hehehe, your taste used to be pretty bad." "Yeah," he replied casually, then looked down at me. "Anything else?" I slapped him hard, sobbing so hard my whole body shook. But he just pinched the bridge of his nose and said flatly, "Stop making a scene. Let's get a divorce."

2.

The next day, Marcus came back. I don't know which event he'd just finished, but he was still in a suit. He dropped a document in front of me. "Claire, let's part amicably. Don't make this ugly." I hadn't slept all night. I threw the papers in his face. He tilted his head, a flicker of menace in his narrow eyes. "Claire, don't go too far." "I'm going too far? Who's the one sleeping in another woman's bed? Marcus!" I laughed until my chest ached, coughing violently, a salty, metallic taste rising in my throat. "What? You cheated, and I'm supposed to thank you, welcome you home with open arms?" Marcus frowned, impatience written all over his face. "We've been living in different worlds for a long time. You know that, don't you? I'll give you financial compensation. You'll live well." I stared at him in disbelief. Was this the same man who'd spent his childhood and youth with me, who'd sworn at the civil affairs bureau to love me forever? How could he have changed so completely in just two years? I remembered last year, when I'd had a simple sore throat. He'd treated it like a crisis, forbidding me from eating cold things, keeping warm water by my side at all times, making soups to clear my heat and stop my cough, and urging me to go to the hospital. His whole world had revolved around me. Now, I was coughing so hard I couldn't speak, and all he felt was annoyance. I wiped my mouth, then smeared the blood onto my skirt. "Marcus, I won't let this go." He looked at me calmly, a hint of contempt in his eyes. "The company's already prepared a PR strategy. Making a scene won't do you any good, Claire." I grabbed the nearest vase and hurled it at him. It shattered beside his face, cutting his cheek. "Get out!" He'd never seen me like this—like a wild, hysterical woman. He pressed his lips together. "If you say anything online, I'll cut off the orphanage's funding." I stared at his cold, ruthless expression, my voice hoarse. "You'd use that to threaten me? Marcus? Didn't Sister Chen treat you well? Do you even have a heart?" He looked down. "I told you, I want to reach the top. Claire, you know how hard I've worked, don't you?" *Bang!* He finished, turned, and slammed the door behind him. I collapsed to the floor, vomiting blood in great gushes. The pain in my stomach was excruciating. I was drenched in cold sweat. Was this it? Was I going to die?

3.

"Claire, let's be together. I want to spend the rest of my life looking at you." It was right after graduation. Marcus had finally graduated from being an extra to a minor supporting role. He'd saved up and bought me a diamond ring. It was the first snow of the year. He was wearing a long black down jacket, his hair slightly curly. He stood under a dim streetlamp, looking nervous. I knew he was worried about that rich kid from college who'd confessed to me. How cute. I held out my hand and let him slide the cold ring onto my finger. My heart felt incredibly warm.

"Cough, cough..." I opened my eyes. Sunlight was streaming across the floor. I was lying in a black dress on the kitchen floor, the white marble stained with dried blood. I was a mess—withered, cold all over, in so much pain that even getting up felt like a monumental effort. Was this what it felt like to die? I struggled to my feet, dizzy and disoriented. I popped two milk candies into my mouth. But then the nausea hit. Even though I hadn't eaten anything, I kept retching, until I felt like I was throwing up bile. My mouth was filled with a bitter taste. It was unbearable. I slowly sat down on the floor, looked up, and saw how empty the house was. There wasn't even a knife in the kitchen. So this was it. I'd been alone all along. I was the only one clinging to the past. Marcus had already left, heading toward his so-called bright future. Should I get revenge? But what was the point? How much longer did I have? I don't know how long I sat there. The sun began to set, and a sliver of light finally fell on me through the window, bringing a little warmth. I moved my fingers, got up, and called Marcus. "I'll agree to the divorce. Give me fifty million, and double the orphanage's monthly funding." There was a long pause on the other end. "Claire, don't you think you're going too far?" "Hah." I let out a bitter laugh. Tears were streaming down my face, but my voice was eerily calm. "I'll give you one day to think about it. I want to see you at the civil affairs bureau the day after tomorrow. Otherwise, you can forget about me ever agreeing to a divorce." I hung up without waiting for his reply.

4.

Marcus showed up, wearing a mask, a hat, and loose clothes. But even so, his aura was unmistakable. People kept staring at him. After all, the city was plastered with his ads—even the bus stops. It was annoying. Once I confirmed the money had been transferred, I signed the divorce papers. He had to take off his mask to verify his identity, and I could hear the whispers around us. But I didn't know then that this would be posted online, causing a massive uproar.

After we left the civil affairs bureau, we were like two strangers. He walked straight ahead, not even glancing at me, and quickly got into his van. Inside, I could see a pair of long, pale legs. Probably Coco. Then the door slammed shut, and the van drove off, easily disappearing from my life. But he'd left such a deep mark on it. I watched the van drive away and whispered, "Marcus, goodbye forever." Then I looked down at the message I'd drafted. It was nearly ten thousand words long, chronicling every detail of our lives together—from the day I arrived at the orphanage at age five, to our first meeting, to the night he proposed to me under the streetlamp after graduation. Nine thousand eight hundred and twenty-one words, summing up twenty-two years of our lives. It wasn't even as long as a thesis. Before I could hit "publish," I suddenly noticed a chubby mother holding her child's hand in the distance. They were talking and laughing, looking so happy. It reminded me of Sister Chen, the director of the orphanage. She was also chubby, with a warm smile and a loud voice. She treated all of us kids like her own. Because she'd lost her own child when she was young.

I remembered when I first arrived at the orphanage. I cried every day, my eyes swollen shut. She was so worried she got blisters on her lips. She'd spend all day comforting me, while also having to prepare three meals for the other kids, do laundry, clean—running around nonstop. When I grew up, I asked her if it was worth it. She said she didn't have time to think about things like that. Instead of letting negative emotions get to her, she'd rather cherish the good memories.

6.

I blinked, my finger hovering over the screen. If I posted it, the media, the reporters, even the obsessive fans would be hunting me down. But I only had less than three months to live. Did I really want to waste my last days entangled with Marcus? I didn't even want to see him again. In my final days, I just wanted to be alone, to experience the world one last time, and then leave quietly. I didn't want any more ties to him. And then, one last time, I wanted to visit the orphanage, see Sister Chen and the little ones, hear Sister Chen's loud voice, and listen to the kids' happy, noisy chatter.

At the thought, I couldn't help but smile. A wave of warmth washed over me, slowly drowning out the pain Marcus had caused. It still ached, but it didn't seem so unbearable anymore. If only life could be like the first time we met. I took a deep breath and looked up. The sky was blue, dotted with white clouds. It was a beautiful day. I'd buy them some cake. I hit "delete," and a weight lifted off my shoulders. It was finally over.

7.

"Sister Claire is here!" Little Yuan spotted me first and called out happily. She was five years old, round and adorable. Then a group of little ones ran out and surrounded me. I smiled and handed them the cake. They happily carried it to the table, each picking out their favorite flavor, their eyes shining with joy. When Sister Chen saw me, she immediately gave me a light smack on the back, her voice as loud as ever. "Are you on a diet again?! You're so skinny! It's not pretty!" I looked at her. She looked both worried and angry. When had her hair turned half white? It hadn't been that white last week, had it? Or maybe I just hadn't noticed? At that moment, I wanted to throw myself into her arms and cry, to tell her about all the pain I'd been through, to curse Marcus out. But in the end, I held back, wrapping my arms around her and acting coy. "Oh, it's the fashion." "Fashion, my foot!" she grumbled. "I'm making braised beef. You're eating two bowls of rice today." "No problem." I sniffled and gave her a bright smile. "What's wrong with you?" Sister Chen muttered, but I could see the happiness in her eyes. She turned to leave, then hesitated. "Marcus... no, I mean, are you and Marcus okay?" I was stunned for a moment before I realized she was talking about Marcus's original name. "Marcus" was his stage name, given to him by his company. It must have been about two years ago. It dawned on me then. When he changed his name, he'd already started drifting away from the Marcus I knew. "We're fine," I said, looking down, a faint smile on my lips. She sighed, disappointed, but still tried to comfort me. "The media online, they just write nonsense. That kid is steady and obedient. He wouldn't cheat." I thought of that day—him in a towel, Coco wrapping her arms around him. I dug my nails into my palm and nodded, still smiling. "Yeah, he's good to me." Sister Chen patted my head. "If it gets too much, just divorce him and come back to help out." "Haha, sure," I said. She still looked a little worried, but she turned and went to cook. I watched her retreating figure in her apron, and the kids eating cake at the table. My gaze wandered, from the sandbox where we used to play, to the swing I used to swing on, and finally to the giant ginkgo tree. Its leaves had all turned yellow and fallen. But I remembered when it was in full bloom, its branches lush and rustling in the wind. Young Marcus had stood under that tree, his eyes clear and focused, and said to me, "Claire, I'll never let you cry. You don't have to be so strong. Just lean on me."

When I came back to myself, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I covered my face, afraid Sister Chen and the kids would see, and fled. But this was the last time I'd cry for him. The last time I'd cry for the beautiful, sincere person he used to be. Of course, the main reason I ran was that I couldn't eat two bowls of braised beef. I couldn't even eat half a bowl.

6.

What a shame. I remembered the taste—the rich aroma of the meat, the tender juices that would burst in your mouth with every bite. In the old days, when the orphanage was short on funds, each kid would only get five or six pieces. But Marcus would always give me his share. I'd have to force him to eat one, and he'd do it reluctantly, saying he didn't like it, and tell me to finish it all. Why was I thinking about him again? I was just reminiscing about the past, but the past was full of him. I closed my eyes, trying to force the images out of my head. I looked at the cemetery plot in front of me and thought, *Isn't God being a little unfair?* When other people go through a breakup, it takes them two or three years to get over it. Me? I get a breakup and a death sentence, all in less than three months. "That's just cruel," I muttered. At least the cemetery was far enough from the city center, surrounded by mountains and rivers. The "neighbors" seemed friendly enough. It actually made me feel a little better. I found it almost funny. Marcus always said my brain worked in strange ways, that I was always daydreaming. But he'd still look at me with such adoration. There I was, thinking about him again. Pathetic. I looked down, stood up, brushed the grass off my clothes, and said to the salesperson, "This one's fine." After signing the contract and making all the arrangements, I went to the hospital. Out of the blue, Marcus called me and said, "I'm sorry." How bizarre. I didn't say anything. I just hung up and blocked him. In my final days, I was going to rip him out of my life completely, tear him out of my flesh, leaving no trace behind.

7.

I was in a private room. The nurses and doctors were all very attentive. Sometimes I'd chat with the nurses, sharing funny stories. It was actually quite pleasant. Until one day, she started being evasive, constantly glancing at my face. I was confused. I thought about recent events and opened my phone. Weibo had exploded. The top headline was "Marcus Divorces." Below it were a string of others: "Marcus Was Married?" "Marcus Blackmailed." "Who Is Marcus's Wife?" "Marcus, Unfollowed." "Marcus's Statement."

My finger paused. I clicked on Marcus's statement. The gist of it was: Marcus and I had known each other since we were young. We got married. But then I became vain and extravagant. We were already planning to divorce when Marcus became famous, and I started leeching off him, pretending to have depression and threatening suicide. Finally, Marcus couldn't take it anymore. He asked me what I wanted, and I said fifty million. Only then did I agree to the divorce. Below the statement was a clip of audio, less than a minute long.

Me: "Give me fifty million." Marcus: "Claire, don't you think you're going too far?" Me: "Hah. I'll give you one day to think about it. Fifty million. Otherwise, forget about the divorce."

"Cough, cough, cough, cough..." The edited recording was so absurd it made my brain stop working. Even though we'd been fighting constantly for the past two years, even though he'd cheated on me and I'd caught him, I never thought he'd do this to me. What had happened in the last two years? Was the world of fame and fortune so intoxicating that he'd willingly throw all the mud at me? When had the quiet, warm-hearted boy I remembered turned into this greedy, selfish man? Had I ever really known him at all?

"Ugh..." The sweet memories of the past and the desperate reality of the present intertwined in my heart, making me feel like the world itself was fake, full of jarring contradictions. I clutched my chest, coughing and retching uncontrollably. Drops of blood spattered onto the white sheets. I couldn't stop. The sheets were completely red, and I was still laughing. So this was what it felt like to be in so much pain that you couldn't stop laughing. Hahahaha. How was this so funny? Haha! The pain in my stomach was agonizing. I kept vomiting blood. My head felt like it was going to explode. So this was what it felt like when your world crumbled and your beliefs shattered. I collapsed onto the bed, and the world went dark. When I woke up again, three days had passed. After I was moved out of the ICU, I became withdrawn. The doctors kept hinting that I should take good care of myself, that I'd get better. I looked at them and smiled. "Just tell me how long I have." The doctor sighed, took off his glasses, and said, "Maybe... one to two months. Try not to let your emotions get too volatile. But if you take good care of yourself, you never know. Keep a positive attitude..." "It's okay. I know my body." I smiled at him, then let the nurse help me into a wheelchair and push me back to my room. I was so tired. Even breathing felt exhausting. So this was what it felt like when your body started to fail. I looked at the bare branches outside the window and thought, *Winter is here.* At the same time, my phone rang again. It was another unknown number. I hadn't looked at my phone for a week, and there were over three hundred missed calls. I didn't need to guess who it was. If I'd seen them before, my heart might have stirred. Now, I just felt annoyance. Then, even that faded. I hung up and lay quietly. My body was weak and nauseous. Even breathing was difficult. In the face of death, even emotions couldn't be sustained. It was so painful I didn't want anything. Even my hair felt tired. I just wanted to live. To live. If only I'd had a hotpot after leaving the orphanage. Spicy and numbing, with beef rolls, pork aorta, lamb, fried sticky rice cakes... I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Marcus was standing by my bed, his eyes red, his gaze stubborn. "Claire, you're not sick, right?" I looked at his strained expression and found it amusing. "Stage four cancer. I'm dying."

8.

"Fuck! Fuck! Why didn't you fucking tell me! Fuck!" Marcus went crazy. The "refinement" and "aloofness" that the entertainment industry had forced on him were shattered. He smashed vases, dishes, the TV, even the kettle. He was like a cornered beast, venting all his emotions—regret, guilt, love? I just watched him quietly, my heart completely calm. "So noisy," I said softly. My voice was barely a whisper, but he froze as if someone had hit the pause button. Then, slowly and painfully, he sank to his knees, clutching his head and muttering to himself, "What have I done? What have I done? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Claire. I'm sorry. Please forgive me..." He was on the floor like a dog, tears streaming down his face, looking pathetic and desperate. He reminded me of myself when I'd found out about his affair. So this was how ugly it looked. "Quick, get him out!" The security guards, seeing that he'd stopped, rushed in and dragged him away. But Marcus just kept shouting, "Claire, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." I couldn't be bothered to look at him. I let the nurses move me to a different room. I even thought of that line from *Meteor Garden*: "If sorry were enough, what would we need the police for?" How funny. I could still come up with jokes. Maybe things weren't so bad after all. But how did he find out I was here? I opened my phone and searched his name again. I had to admit, having a famous ex-husband had its uses. A new entry popped up: "Marcus's Ex-Wife's Current Situation." I clicked on it. It was a photo of me. It must have been taken in the hospital lobby during one of my chemo sessions. The photo showed me, pale and gaunt, my eyes closed peacefully. The top comment was: "The bitch got cancer, hahaha." The username was: ILoveMarcusForever.

Enough. I threw my phone to the floor. I hadn't wanted to be affected by these emotions, but they still clung to me like a shadow. How annoying.

9.

When I woke up the next day, Marcus was there again. He was sitting next to me, his eyes closed, dark circles under them. What was he doing? He seemed to sense my gaze. He opened his eyes and saw I was awake. His face lit up. "Claire, you're awake! Are you hungry? I made you some chicken soup. I skimmed off all the fat with paper towels. The doctor said you can have some liquids. Let me get you some, okay?" He stood up as he spoke. How annoying. I'd just woken up, my vision blurry. I could see his figure, but it was doubled. I pressed the call button for the nurse. "Get him out of here. I don't know him." Marcus's face twisted in pain, but he crouched by my bed, his voice humble. "Claire, please. Just let me stay with you. I won't talk..." "We're already divorced," I said coldly. "Or do you think the edited audio wasn't enough, the photo of me in chemo wasn't enough? Are you here to finish me off yourself?" "No, no... please, don't say that." Marcus bowed his head deeply, his voice hoarse. He covered his face in anguish. I let out a scornful laugh. "You were so quick to stab me in the back. What's with the act now? Get lost." "Get him out," I repeated to the nurse. The nurse looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Marcus, this is really not good for the patient's recovery. She's already very weak." "Mr. Marcus?" "Fine. I'll go." Marcus took a deep breath, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then looked up and forced a smile at me. "I'll do whatever Claire says."

Those words hit me like a punch to the gut. Every time he'd made me angry in the past, he'd hold me, lower his voice, and say those exact words, making me melt. But what was the point now? I didn't say anything. I watched him stand up to leave. "Wait!" I called out. He turned, his eyes full of hope. I said coldly, "Take your soup with you. It's disgusting." In that moment, it was as if all the stars in his eyes went out. He hesitated, then bent down and carried the soup out. I looked away. Late affection is indeed cheaper than grass. No, that's an insult to grass.

10.

Actually, I'd known for a long time that we were two different kinds of people. In school, we'd both studied like crazy. Reality forced us to work hard. That few hundred dollars in scholarship money was enough to supplement our meals for months. But as we started working, we both changed. I was easygoing. After graduation, I joined a big company. The pay was good. It was busy, but I had food and shelter, and that was enough for me. Marcus, on the other hand, craved success. But in that circle, he had no connections. He refused to play the game. So he could only run from set to set as an extra. Sometimes he'd be so busy I wouldn't see him for six months. But even so, it hadn't affected our relationship. I'd said yes to his proposal without hesitation. Because his whole world revolved around me. And mine revolved around him. Until three years ago, when he lost a role. He'd finally gotten a part with a few lines. One scene required him to wear a "split" suit of armor and lie half-submerged in near-freezing water, completely still. The director had money and didn't allow stunt doubles. He also had high standards for looks. Marcus took the role. The scene was only a few seconds long, but it took half an hour to film. When he was done, his lips were purple. But he was happy. He called me and said the director had promised him the male lead in his next project—a big production. He might finally get his big break. But in the end, they didn't use him. The new male lead had a backer who was even more powerful than the director. It was a common occurrence in the entertainment industry. But after that, Marcus changed his name. He started following the company's orders—shipping himself with costars, attending dinners... The Marcus who'd once dreamed of becoming an actor was gone. He'd completely transformed into a traffic star. And with his rising fame, the companionship he'd given me disappeared. I wasn't blind. I saw how the world of fame and fortune had dazzled him. But I kept telling myself that the kind little boy, the man who'd taken care of me at the orphanage, who'd protected me at school, whose whole world revolved around me—no matter how much he changed, he was still my Marcus. But reality slapped me hard in the face.

I took small bites of the hospital food. It was all liquid, completely tasteless. Whatever. Thinking about him was a waste of time. I'd rather think about food. I wanted hotpot, spicy noodles, crawfish, a savory crepe with extra chili... I blinked. That's right. I was dying anyway. Why was I still watching what I ate? I'd discovered it too late. The chemo had just made my hair fall out, and it hadn't done any good. At least I hadn't had too many sessions, so I still looked relatively normal. With that thought, I climbed out of bed. I'd lived in the north my whole life and never seen the ocean. I wanted to go to Seabrook. I'd heard the sunrise there was stunning. Now was the perfect time. I got up and pushed open the door, only to find Marcus still sitting in the chair. He was startled awake by the sound and jumped to his feet, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Claire, where are you going? Let me help you." I brushed his hand away and walked off on my own. He followed behind me, step by step. Annoying. I turned around. "Stop following me!" He froze, looking lost. "I, I'm just worried about you. Please, let me stay with you." "Stop pretending to be so devoted. Get lost, Marcus. You were the one who didn't want me. You were the one who slept with someone else. You were the one who—cough, cough—edited that audio—cough—and threw me under the bus!" "I..." "Marcus! If I weren't sick, after what you did, do you think I'd still be able to live a normal life?" "No, I..." "You should be grateful I'm dying. I can't be bothered to waste my last days on a scumbag like you!" His face went white. His lips moved, but no words came out. My breathing was ragged. It took me a few seconds to calm down. The silence was suffocating. Finally, I was tired. I turned around and said flatly, "If you really care about me, don't ever show your face in front of me again." He hung his head and didn't follow.

11.

The doctor didn't approve of me leaving the hospital. My heart and lungs weren't doing well either. What a shame. I really wanted to go. But then I thought about how, if I died on the plane, it would traumatize the other passengers and the flight attendants. So I dropped the idea. I wasn't hoping for my body to get better anymore. I just wished I'd found out sooner. If I had, I could have eaten more good food. I could have seen the ocean. Sigh. I was in a bad mood. When I came out of the office, Marcus was there again. How had I never realized he was such a stubborn leech? I didn't even want to look at him. I went straight back to my room. But he followed me in again, holding up his phone like he was showing off a trophy. He'd posted on Weibo: "It's all my fault. I cheated. My wife is a wonderful woman." It had been posted ten minutes ago, and there were already tens of thousands of comments.

"Have you lost your mind?" I asked, my mouth hanging open. He grinned, his voice choked with sobs. "Claire, I don't care about anything anymore. Just let me stay with you. Please." I looked at him, not knowing what expression to put on. He took a step forward, carefully wrapping his arms around me. His voice was trembling. "I was wrong. Please, let me... let me be with you until the end." Hot tears dripped onto my neck. This was the first time I'd felt his vulnerability so close. In front of me, he'd always acted like he was invincible. So he could look like this too. We'd leaned on each other through so much, become a part of each other. But now, as he held me, I felt nothing. "Marcus, I don't love you anymore." His body trembled. "It's okay, it's okay. I know. I'll love you enough for the both of us."

12.

After he posted that, Marcus's phone nearly exploded. But he didn't care. He didn't answer a single call. He just wore a simple T-shirt and jeans and moved into the hospital. Every day, morning, noon, and night, he'd make me different kinds of soup. It was like we were back in that tiny rented apartment, when he'd cook all sorts of things for me. At first, I could still eat half a bowl. He was a good cook. But after a few weeks, I was taking more pills than food—painkillers, anti-nausea meds, spore oil, diuretics. I'd eat half a bite and throw up for half an hour. He never got tired of taking care of me. He'd clean up the blood and vomit, put warm compresses on me, help me turn over in bed.

But even with all the medication, my body was deteriorating at an unstoppable rate. Sometimes, I'd snap back to reality and realize that days had passed without my noticing. It was like two or three days had just disappeared, leaving only a forced-smiling Marcus by my side. When I woke up, he'd ask me what I wanted to do, if I wanted to go downstairs for a walk. But I had no idea what had happened during those days. I felt like half my soul had left my body, hovering above, looking down with pity. The stomach pain was getting more frequent. The painkillers were useless. It felt like a knife was twisting inside my stomach, making me wish for death but unable to die. Marcus was afraid I'd bite my tongue, so he'd stuck his hand in my mouth. I bit him so hard he needed six stitches. He just laughed and said it was a mark I'd left on him. Crazy. At the same time, I was sleeping more and more. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I might never wake up again.

13.

"Hey, Marcus, let's go get hotpot." He looked up at me, his eyes full of disbelief, despair, and grief. "Claire..." His voice was so hoarse he could barely speak. I just lay there, looking at him quietly. After a long time, he nodded. "Okay. I'll make it for you." I was so happy. But unfortunately, I never got to eat it that day. I started vomiting blood again. Marcus just held my hand tightly, calling my name over and over, looking like the sky was falling. But I couldn't respond. Everything went black. It hurt so much. Please, someone save me.

13.

This time, I was in the ICU for a whole week. When I woke up, Marcus looked like a wreck. His stubble was growing in, dark and unkempt. I'd never seen him look so disheveled. Even when we were at our poorest, he'd always buy a five-cent razor blade and carefully shave. "You look ugly," I said, laughing. He started crying. "I thought... Claire... you're awake. Thank God." He buried his face in my neck, his whole body trembling uncontrollably. "Let's... have hotpot today, okay?" he said, his voice pained. "Okay..." I smiled weakly. "I want... beef tallow... extra... spicy." Just those six words exhausted me. "Okay. I'll buy your favorite beef rolls, pork aorta, tofu... We'll eat everything, okay?" "Mm..." I closed my eyes, exhausted. We both knew. My life was coming to an end. I was so tired.

14.

"Mmm, that smells good." I sniffled and slowly opened my eyes. Sister Chen's face was the first thing I saw. It felt like a dream. When she saw I was awake, she gently pinched my cheek. Even her usually loud voice was soft. "You little sleepyhead, you slept for so long!" I was still dazed as she helped me sit up. I realized I was at the orphanage. No wonder I hadn't been sleeping well in my dreams. I'd been brought here. It must have been Marcus's idea. "Come on, eat. I made all your favorites today," Sister Chen said. She reached out to take my hand, but when she saw how withered it was, her smile faltered. She looked like she was half-crying, half-laughing. She was trying so hard to hold back that her shoulders were shaking. She quickly turned away, not wanting me to see the grief spilling out of her. I was sad too. But now, I didn't even have the strength to cry. "