Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Half a year into my exchange program in the UK, something felt off with my body. I often felt nauseous, vomited every now and then, and had a bloated stomach. I thought it was a leftover problem from years of poor eating, so I didn’t go to the hospital until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Doctors in the UK were expensive and hard to book. I sat in the consultation room as a balding doctor in a white coat—with a Mediterranean hairstyle—frowned at my gastric examination results. His London accent was unpleasant to my ears, but I clearly heard the word "carcinoma ventriculi"—which translates to stomach cancer.

I felt like I’d fallen into an ice cave. To get such a serious diagnosis from just one check-up… well, at least the money wasn’t wasted. The doctor scheduled a follow-up appointment for me in a week, and I stumbled back to my student apartment in a daze.

I didn’t have strong emotions—I just felt exhausted, like twenty years of tiredness had all hit me at once. I didn’t feel any pain, and I didn’t even have the energy to feel sad. I just lay down and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I didn’t know which way was east or west. Checking the time, it was already 5 a.m. The room was silent. I didn’t turn on the light; I groped my way to sit against the headboard in the dark. Only then did I belatedly start crying.

I could endure poverty, study like my life depended on it, and push myself to the limit—then push even further. I’d always thought fighting against fate was thrilling, but when fate really decided to strike back, I realized how fragile human life was.

I found myself thinking about a question I’d stopped pondering since I became an adult: Why? Why did fate have to be so cruel to me, of all people?

In the early hours of the morning in a foreign land, I felt a despair I’d never known before. I badly wanted to make a call—to the only person I thought could share this with me. The phone rang once before I realized it was already late on his side of the world. I was about to hang up when he answered.

He called my name, his voice familiar with a hint of coquetry, complaining that I hadn’t called him in days. I swallowed hard, my throat dry—I couldn’t make a sound. What was I supposed to say to him? What right did I have to call him?

Unable to say a single word, I hung up the phone, disgusted with my own cowardice. Afraid he’d call back to ask questions, I turned off my phone completely.

I cried until dawn, then got up, fixed my appearance, and went to class. The coursework for exchange students was surprisingly heavy—we were all "chosen ones" in our major from around the world. I was terrified that if I fell even a step behind the other students, I’d bring shame to my country and my university.

I threw myself into my research project and was busy until evening. I said goodbye to my groupmates and walked back, thinking I’d just have instant noodles for dinner. Then I saw someone who was supposed to be 8,000 kilometers away.

He was sitting on a bench downstairs from my apartment, dragging a suitcase, looking a little tired. He stood up when he saw me, his eyes filled with worry. I’d cried in the early morning and then endured a full day of classes—I didn’t look much better either. Standing together, we looked like a couple who’d fallen on hard times.

Later, I found out he’d stayed up all night after answering my call, then taken the earliest flight—ten hours of flying—to get here. He said, "You’re used to shouldering everything alone. I couldn’t rest easy until I came to see you with my own eyes."

If this plot were in a TV show, I’d roll my eyes and call it cheesy Mary Sue nonsense—but it actually happened to me. From that moment on, I was sure: Smith Ethan was a total romantic. If he fell for the wrong person, he’d easily become a fool who’d give his all for nothing. He’d crossed half the world to find me, and he didn’t even know what was wrong.

I couldn’t hide it from him, so I told him what the doctor had suspected. That day, in the hotel room, he ranted about everything in the UK—from the endless flights and terrible weather to the awful food. In reality, he had a great temper; he was just looking for an excuse to hide his panic.

That night, he held me in his arms, gently stroking the top of my head over and over again. I leaned against his chest, his heartbeat clear in my ears. He didn’t say a word, but his love was deafening. I no longer resented fate for being cruel to me—I’d already grabbed the most precious thing in the world.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find Smith Ethan lying with his back to me. I reached out to tuck the quilt around him, but I heard a faint whimper. I forced my eyes open and saw that he was trembling slightly—he hadn’t been asleep at all. I wanted to pat him, to comfort him, but I didn’t know where to start.

In my twenty years of life, I’d never regretted anything—except when it came to Smith Ethan. I felt so sorry for him. He’d loved me so deeply, but I’d kept running away, underestimating how much he cared. Smith Ethan… if I could get through this… I didn’t let myself think further. I didn’t want to make plans for something I wasn’t sure about. No expectations meant no disappointment.

He cried quietly all night, and I lay awake listening until dawn. Smith Ethan used his connections to get me an earlier follow-up appointment—money really worked everywhere in the world. The next day, we went for the re-examination, and the diagnosis changed to gastritis. The UK’s medical system had played a joke on me, but neither of us could appreciate the "British humor."

As we walked out of the hospital, Smith Ethan—his eyes still red from crying—turned around and swore at the hospital. It was probably the first time he’d ever sworn at anyone; even his swear words were gentle and subtle, fitting the British style. Having narrowly escaped a disaster, I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard that silly swear word. He looked a little embarrassed, then took my hand and led me across the street. "We’re never coming back to this lousy hospital," he said.