POTINS 28

When Meng Chuan suggested they sleep in the same room so he could take care of him, Wen Zhongyi still refused.

He was already used to sleeping alone.

Even without Meng Chuan by his side, though his sleep might not be as sound as before, it was still fine. Wen Zhongyi had never been the kind of omega who was overly dependent on his partner’s pheromones.

Besides, now that the two of them were living in the same house, the lingering traces of each other’s scent on their bodies were already enough for him.

That night, he dreamed of his father and dad.

His father was dressed in military uniform, sitting upright and meticulously in his office, but his face looked far more haggard than before, with streaks of gray at his temples.

Wen Zhongyi saw him pick up the landline and dial a number, probably calling a subordinate. His father asked, “Still no news?”

The person on the other end said something. His father replied with a low “Mm,” clearly displeased, and said, “Keep investigating,” then hung up.

Though his expression gave away nothing, Wen Zhongyi could feel that his father was not in a good state.

The office lights weren’t on. In the dimness, his father’s silhouette appeared tall and silent. He raised his hands and rubbed his face hard, as if forcing himself to stay clear-headed. But those hands didn’t come down for a long time.

Wen Zhongyi stood frozen, a tight ache rising in his nose.

In his memory, he had never seen his father’s eyes go red.

His father had always been strong, composed, unshakable. He had a gentle side for his family, a man who always did more than he said, a steadfast support for both Wen Zhongyi and his dad.

But now Wen Zhongyi saw him cry.

That single tear fell silently onto the desk, scalding a hole straight through Wen Zhongyi’s heart.

After a long while, his father let go of his face and leaned back in the chair with a long sigh.

He stood up, straightened his uniform, and once again looked like the indestructible man he had always been.

Wen Zhongyi saw the documents stacked on his desk and the surveillance footage playing on the computer screen.

He was looking for the Wen Zhongyi who had gone missing in the car crash.

Wen Zhongyi watched him drive to the presidential residence and firmly request permission to lead a search party beyond the border.

Even though everyone thought it was pointless, his father never gave up.

“I must find my son,” his father said. “He’s definitely still alive. He just can’t reach us.”

In the end, the president rejected the request, but agreed to help contact other countries and coordinate a global search effort.

“There will be good news,” the president sighed, patting his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, General Wen.”

His father bowed deeply, his bent back trembling slightly.

Wen Zhongyi wanted to hug him, to tell him he was here, but no sound came out.

He could only watch as his father returned home and said to his dad in a strained, seemingly calm voice, “Still no news for now, but we’ll find him.”

His dad had lost a lot of weight. Clothes that once fit perfectly now hung on his thin frame. His face was pale and listless.

He couldn’t cry anymore. His eyes were just red as he nodded, then sat back down on the couch in a daze.

His father sat beside him, pulled him into his arms, and sighed softly, unable to offer any words of comfort.

Losing both sons in succession, how were they supposed to endure it, how could they bear such pain?

Wen Zhongyi felt his face heat and grow wet, tears slipping into his mouth, bitter beyond words.

Suddenly, the scene flickered. The vision before him blurred, then gradually cleared.

He saw his dad painting on the balcony.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt, quietly dipping a brush into paint and spreading it across the canvas.

It seemed to be summer now. Warm, gentle sunlight poured in through the window, bathing him in golden light, so beautiful it hurt.

His complexion looked much better, no longer bloodless, and carrying a faint, peaceful smile.

Wen Zhongyi glanced at the outline on the canvas, it was clearly a portrait of his father.

His dad was a very talented artist.

He had met his father at an art exhibition, and despite his family’s objections, chose to be with him. They came to understand and love each other, and had Wen Zhongyi.

Because of the war, he hadn’t been able to continue painting. He joined the medical corps instead, following Wen Zhongyi’s father and saving countless lives.

Compared to his strict and reserved father, Wen Zhongyi had always been closer to his dad.

His dad was always gentle, carrying the light, comforting scent of jasmine. No matter how old Wen Zhongyi got, he was always treated like a child in his dad’s eyes.

Click—the door creaked open.

Father was back.

Dad got up to greet him. The two shared a simple hug, then exchanged a gentle kiss.

Father was carrying Dad’s favorite little cakes. He reached out to touch Dad’s cheek, smiling as he said, “You’ve got paint all over your face.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

Father pulled him over to the couch, took a wet wipe, and carefully wiped the paint from his face. “What did you paint today?”

Dad blinked and smiled softly. “Not telling you yet.”

“Why not?”

“No reason. I’ll show you when it’s finished.”

“Alright then,” Father said, helplessly. “I’ll wait till it’s done.”

They chatted casually, without showing any signs of sorrow or gloom.

After a while, Dad stood up and asked, “What do you want for lunch?”

“You’re cooking?” Father replied. “I was thinking of taking you out.”

“It’s Saturday,” Dad said. But right after, his smile froze for a second, a look of confusion flashing across his face, as if even he didn’t understand why Saturday’s lunch needed to be eaten at home.

But Wen Zhongyi realized immediately: in the past, every Saturday, he and Meng Chuan would come over to have lunch with Father and Dad.

It was their family day.

“Saturday?” Father furrowed his brow slightly and fell silent.

Wen Zhongyi looked at them and suddenly understood.

He looked around the room and noticed that the painting once hung in the living room was gone.

It was one he had drawn as a child, messy colors, hardly a proper painting—but Dad had always cherished it, hanging it in the most prominent spot in the living room.

Every time Wen Zhongyi came home, he’d be embarrassed by how ugly it was.

But now, that painting had vanished.

So had the mug with the little rose design on the coffee table, Wen Zhongyi’s mug.

Something strange was happening again, and Wen Zhongyi could feel his breathing slow.

He remembered how, after Meng Chuan disappeared, the things belonging to Meng Chuan at home had also vanished little by little, and he hadn’t even noticed.

If it hadn’t been for the car crash bringing him into Meng Chuan’s world, Wen Zhongyi might really have forgotten him.

Just like now, his father and dad had forgotten about Meng Chuan, and now, everything that belonged to Wen Zhongyi was being quietly erased.

Maybe at first, they would feel something was off, feel like they were forgetting something important. But eventually, even that feeling would fade. They would accept it, subconsciously.

As if that painting never existed in the living room. As if the mug with the little rose had never been placed on the coffee table.

As if they never had a son named Wen Zhongyi.

No car crash, no disappearance. No memory, no pain.

Wen Zhongyi looked at the parents who had forgotten him, his heart torn in a thousand directions.

Maybe forgetting was for the best, he thought.

He didn’t know if he’d ever return to Sanka. Most likely, he couldn’t. He hadn’t found a way back. So if Father and Dad could forget everything, that was already the best possible outcome.

Really, it was the best.

And yet Wen Zhongyi was still deeply sad.

Meng Chuan had forgotten him. Now even his father and dad had forgotten him. And they had once loved Wen Zhongyi so much.

Forgetting comes quietly. But the ones who remember, those are the ones who suffer most.

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, soaking into the pillow. In his sleep, Wen Zhongyi curled up under the blanket, like a child nestling in his dad’s arms.

The light faded, and the silhouettes of Father and Dad grew blurry. Wen Zhongyi, crying, softly said goodbye.

The next morning, Wen Zhongyi’s eyes were swollen beyond recognition.

As soon as Meng Chuan saw those rabbit-like eyes, he jumped in fright. “What happened to your eyes? Did something sting you?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t look well. He shot Meng Chuan a blank look and said nothing, heading straight into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

Left standing there, Meng Chuan muttered, “Did he cry or something?”

Inside the bathroom, Wen Zhongyi turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face.

In the mirror, his eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pale.

If this wasn’t a dream but reality…

Then it meant Wen Zhongyi no longer existed in Sanka. No one remembered him.

Even if he stood right in front of Father and Dad, they would only see a stranger.

Wen Zhongyi had thought many times about how to go back. But now, he suddenly realized—going back had no meaning.

He didn’t belong in Sanka. He didn’t belong here either.

In either world, he was out of place. Forgotten.

He splashed more cold water on his face, braced his hands on the sink, and bowed his head, closing his eyes under the weight of it all.

Moments later, there was a knock at the bathroom door.

Meng Chuan called his name from outside. “Wen Zhongyi?”

Wen Zhongyi’s eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t respond.

“You’ve been in there a long time.” Meng Chuan knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. Inside, it was dead silent.

Meng Chuan frowned. “Open up, I need to use the bathroom.”

Two seconds passed with no answer. Meng Chuan said, “If you don’t open up, I’m kicking the door in.”

“You…” Wen Zhongyi just managed to speak a syllable, but realized his voice was hoarse. He shut his mouth and, just as Meng Chuan was about to break in, turned the handle and opened the door.

Seeing Wen Zhongyi standing there safe, Meng Chuan finally let out a breath. “You could’ve at least made a sound.”

Then he saw Wen Zhongyi’s eyes, and froze.

“What happened to you?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t want Meng Chuan to see him like this. He avoided his gaze and tried to slip past through the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Meng Chuan raised an arm and blocked the doorway, stopping him. His eyes fell on the red corners of Wen Zhongyi’s eyes, and his voice softened without him realizing. “Tell me what happened.”