POTINS 3

A few days ago, Wen Zhongyi picked up a part-time job at a bookstore.

The owner was kind and, after hearing about his situation, paid him half a month’s wages in advance.

Wen Zhongyi first paid Yang Jiaran back, then went to the second-hand market and bought a cheap phone. Yang Jiaran gave him an extra SIM card he wasn’t using.

The phone was old and kept blacking out, but at least it still worked.

Wen Zhongyi only downloaded a few basic apps, and his contacts list had only one person—Yang Jiaran.

He wanted to find Meng Chuan, but had no idea where to start.

The world was too big, and every day countless people brushed past him. Wen Zhongyi had fantasized more than once about bumping into Meng Chuan at some street corner.

In the month since Meng Chuan disappeared, Wen Zhongyi had dreamed of him many times.

In those dreams, Meng Chuan would hold him tightly, but the real Meng Chuan now looked at him like a stranger.

Wen Zhongyi took half a step forward, then stopped, frowning.

The lingering effects of the battlefield left his knees aching every time it rained or turned gloomy.

He looked at Meng Chuan quietly, his gaze complex and unreadable.

Meng Chuan couldn’t help but look away.

That gaze made him feel inexplicably sad.

Rain that had been building up for a while finally poured down, drenching the ground in a steady rhythm.

Wen Zhongyi instinctively hunched over, his aching knees barely able to support his weight. But the pain didn’t seem confined to just his knees. His heart, in the silence of each passing second, was gradually turning cold.

“Who’s that?” Ji Shu asked, confused.

“I was about to ask the same,” Meng Chuan said softly, then took the umbrella from Ji Shu’s hand. “Lend me this.”

“Eh?” Ji Shu got hit by a few stray drops and hurried back into the car.

A pair of black leather shoes stopped in front of him. Rain pounded against the umbrella with a dull thud.

Wen Zhongyi looked up and saw Meng Chuan’s fingers gripping the umbrella handle—his ring finger was bare.

His wedding ring was gone.

Meng Chuan stood tall before Wen Zhongyi. He was very tall. He tilted the umbrella forward slightly and asked, head lowered, “Do you know me?”

Wen Zhongyi straightened up with effort, his lashes trembling slightly. He didn’t answer, only asked in return, “You don’t remember me?”

They were standing very close. Meng Chuan could smell the faint scent of roses on him.

Strangely, despite usually hating the smell of perfume, Meng Chuan didn’t mind this one.

“You…” Wen Zhongyi had barely spoken one syllable before his voice cracked into a rasp. He cleared his throat and asked again, “You really don’t remember me?”

Meng Chuan frowned slightly, searched his memory for a moment, but found no trace of this man. He asked, “Do we know each other?”

It was as if the words physically struck Wen Zhongyi—his breath caught, and his eyes reddened to the point of tears.

But they never fell.

Wen Zhongyi closed his eyes, his lashes drooping like fragile cicada wings.

He looked so pale that Meng Chuan felt he might faint at any second.

But no matter how hard he tried, Meng Chuan couldn’t recall this person, though some part of him felt like he should.

The contradiction made his chest feel tight and sore.

“When did we meet?” Meng Chuan changed the question.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t answer.

He stopped looking at Meng Chuan and walked off into the rain on his own. In seconds, his shirt was soaked through.

Meng Chuan took a couple steps after him, holding the umbrella over him, still confused. “What’s your name?”

Wen Zhongyi stopped and looked up at him.

The smell of alcohol was strong on Meng Chuan. Wen Zhongyi couldn’t detect the bitter coffee scent of his pheromones.

Meng Chuan noticed his gaze lingering on his neck and shifted uncomfortably.

The collar of his shirt covered the back of his neck, and Wen Zhongyi wasn’t sure whether his alpha gland was still there.

He hoped it was. And hoped it wasn’t.

After a moment of silence, Wen Zhongyi said, “Sorry, I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

His soaked shirt clung to his body, muscles taut from his arms to his back, looking like he was about to collapse at any moment.

Meng Chuan stared at his back in a daze for a couple seconds. Just as he was about to chase after him, the man hailed a taxi and quickly disappeared from sight.

Back in the car, his friends crowded him with questions. “What was that all about?”

“How would I know?” Meng Chuan threw the dripping umbrella to the floor. His left shoulder and back were both soaked through.

The driver turned the wheel and pulled onto the road, heading toward the KTV.

The group of rich young men kept gossiping about the strange encounter.

“Did you rack up some secret romances during your four-year disappearance?” Ji Shu teased.

“Screw off,” Meng Chuan said irritably. “I’m straight.”

The KTV was their usual haunt, now much fancier than it had been four years ago.

The deafening music mixed with alcohol and smoke made Meng Chuan’s temples throb.

He suddenly remembered that lean, tall figure in the rain, remembered the man’s pale face, and those sorrowful eyes.

I wonder if the rain’s stopped, Meng Chuan thought.

“Tell the gloomy day to quit messing around—I’ve missed you for so, so long—”

Ji Shu finished howling through a rendition of Happy Gloomy Day, shoved the microphone into Meng Chuan’s hands, and shouted hoarsely, “What are you spacing out for? Hurry up and sing one!”

The others chimed in, “Sing! Sing one!”

Egged on by his group of boisterous friends, Meng Chuan casually picked a fast-paced song.

The pounding music and flashing lights kicked his dopamine into overdrive. He lit a cigarette, and in no time, all those messy thoughts were thrown to the back of his mind. He stopped fixating on that inexplicable man.

In contrast to the lively private room, the motel room was cold and quiet.

The hot water heater in the bathroom was broken. Halfway through his shower, the water turned cold. Wen Zhongyi rinsed the foam off quickly, freezing from head to toe.

The stabbing pain in his knees nearly made it impossible to stand. There was nothing to keep warm in the room, so Wen Zhongyi could only brace against the wall, slowly move to the bed, lie down, and pull the blanket over himself, soaking up the tiniest sliver of warmth.

He couldn’t help but think of Meng Chuan.

From the moment he saw Meng Chuan again, memories surged like waves, flooding every corner of his mind.

Whenever it rained, Meng Chuan would always insist he rest at home, using herbal packs to warm his knees.

Wen Zhongyi hadn’t even paid that much attention to the weather, but Meng Chuan somehow always knew when it would be cloudy or rainy. He’d ask for time off in advance to stay home with him.

“Acupuncture might help it heal faster,” Meng Chuan had once said.

Wen Zhongyi asked, “What’s acupuncture?”

“It’s a medical treatment—using needles to cure illness.” Meng Chuan had sighed. “Too bad no one here knows how to do it.”

It sounded like torture. Wen Zhongyi frowned. “I don’t want acupuncture.”

Meng Chuan had burst out laughing and asked, “Do you want chestnut pastries?”

Wen Zhongyi did want them, but it was raining outside and he didn’t want Meng Chuan to go out in the rain. So he said, “No.”

But Meng Chuan saw right through him. Ignoring Wen Zhongyi’s protests, he pulled him into a hug and kissed him. “If you want it, just say it. I’ll go get it for you.”

“How many times have you kissed me today?” Wen Zhongyi asked helplessly. “My face is covered in your spit.”

“No such thing as too many kisses.” Meng Chuan put on his coat, then grinned and leaned over again before leaving. “One more for the road.”

Wen Zhongyi threw a pillow at him and laughed, “Get lost!”

The pastry shop wasn’t far. Meng Chuan walked there on foot, coming back soaked with raindrops.

But the freshly made chestnut pastries, tucked inside his coat, were still warm.

The more considerate Meng Chuan had been in the past, the harder it was for Wen Zhongyi to accept that he’d now been forgotten.

He couldn’t accept being looked at like a stranger.

The rain outside grew heavier, pounding on the plastic awning of the balcony in a muffled rhythm, like a lullaby.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t know when he fell asleep.

Ever since getting pregnant, he’d been constantly drowsy, but rarely slept well—always being jolted awake by the urge to pee or a sudden leg cramp.

The pregnancy symptoms made restful sleep nearly impossible.

But this time, waking up felt different. Wen Zhongyi felt ice-cold all over, though his body temperature was actually higher than normal.

There were missed calls from Yang Jiaran on his phone. Wen Zhongyi called back, and Yang Jiaran asked, “Want to grab dinner tonight?”

They’d known each other for a week and had already become friends. Yang Jiaran often invited him out to eat.

Wen Zhongyi apologized. “Not today, maybe next time.”

Yang Jiaran picked up on the weakness in his voice. “What’s wrong? You sound sick.”

Wen Zhongyi answered honestly, “I think I have a fever.”

“What? You have a fever?” Yang Jiaran asked, “Did you take any medicine?”

“Not yet.” Wen Zhongyi didn’t have any.

Yang Jiaran, as warm-hearted as ever, said, “Wait for me, I’ll come by.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t want to trouble him. “It’s fine. I’ll go to the pharmacy myself.”

“There’s no pharmacy near you,” Yang Jiaran said firmly. “Wait for me.”

Thankfully, the school wasn’t far from the motel. About fifteen minutes later, Yang Jiaran arrived with a bag of medicine.

“Thank you. Did you get caught in the rain?” Wen Zhongyi opened the door, head heavy and dizzy. Even his smile looked strained.

“Come on, no need to thank me. We’re friends. I brought an umbrella.” Yang Jiaran set it by the door, stomped the water off his shoes, and helped him to the bed. “What’s your temperature?”

Wen Zhongyi said he didn’t know.

“Let’s check.” Yang Jiaran pulled a thermometer out of the plastic bag and tucked it under his arm, then boiled a kettle of hot water and prepared the fever meds.

A while later, Wen Zhongyi glanced at the thermometer. “Thirty-eight point five.”

“Take your meds and get some rest,” Yang Jiaran instructed.

Wen Zhongyi drank the medicine and two cups of hot water, then quickly lost consciousness.

He dreamed of Meng Chuan again.

That clingy, sweet-talking Meng Chuan. The one who was always messing around, but came through when it mattered most.

Countless memories flickered by frame by frame, finally freezing on the Meng Chuan who had said, “Do we know each other?”

When Wen Zhongyi woke up, Yang Jiaran was still there.

At some point, the rain had stopped. Yang Jiaran sat in a chair scrolling through his phone. When he saw Wen Zhongyi open his eyes, he asked, “Feeling better?”

Wen Zhongyi said, “Much better.”

“I thought you were really suffering,” Yang Jiaran said with a relieved smile. “You were crying in your sleep.”