POTINS 37

“Why?”

Meng Chuan looked like he hadn’t expected rejection. He froze for a moment, his expression shifting slightly. He lowered his voice and asked, “Did I do something wrong? Am I worse than the person I was before?”

“No,” Wen Zhongyi avoided his gaze.

“Then why can’t you accept me?” Meng Chuan stared at him. “Is it because I said or did something wrong before?”

“It’s not because of that.” Wen Zhongyi frowned slightly. “Get up first.”

But Meng Chuan stayed where he was, still kneeling on one knee, as if insisting on getting an answer from Wen Zhongyi. “Even without the memories, I can still take good care of you. I remember your habits, your preferences. I’ve tried to make up for my past mistakes. Why won’t you give me a chance?”

Wen Zhongyi lowered his gaze. He didn’t know how to explain it. He simply shook his head and said, “It’s not the same.”

“What’s different?” Meng Chuan pressed.

“A lot of things.” Wen Zhongyi didn’t want to sound too heartless. “Those four years… they’re not something that can just be erased.”

“It’s just four years of memories,” Meng Chuan said, trying to keep his voice calm. “All of that is in the past. Aren’t we doing well now? We’ve done everything couples should do. You’ve met my parents. Before we left, my mom told me to take you abroad to register our marriage, to hold a wedding before the baby is born, and after the child arrives, we’d raise them together. Wouldn’t that be a peaceful, happy life? Why are you still clinging to the past?”

He was still holding out the ring, the tiny diamonds dazzling under the light.

What should have been a romantic and tender moment now felt frozen and tense.

“Meng Chuan, you don’t understand what those four years meant,” Wen Zhongyi finally met his gaze, speaking calmly. “It’s not just four years of memories. They carried a lot of weight—for me, they were incredibly important. Just because you’re treating me well now doesn’t mean you can make up for all of that.”

Meng Chuan took a deep breath, like he was trying to suppress the surge of emotions rising in his chest. “Then what do you want me to do? Do you think I don’t want my memories back? What can I do? Even without them, I’m still the same person. I still love you the same. What else are you dissatisfied with?”

By the end, his tone was sharp and pressing.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t want to argue anymore. He closed his eyes, then gave a clear and merciless answer: “I just can’t come to terms with your amnesia. I want the whole you, the you with all your memories.”

Meng Chuan opened his mouth, his breathing uneven.

His eyes were red, chest heaving. He looked aggressive, but somehow pitiful too.

After a moment, he managed to suppress his emotions. His voice was hoarse as he asked, “Then what if I never get my memories back?”

Wen Zhongyi’s expression stiffened for a second before he said quickly, “You will.”

“But what if I don’t?” Meng Chuan didn’t leave him any room to escape. “If I never remember, are you saying you’ll never accept me?”

“…”

Wen Zhongyi turned his head away and said nothing.

His silence was like a death sentence. The entire living room fell quiet.

After a long while, Meng Chuan slowly lowered the hand holding the ring.

His eyes were bloodshot. He braced himself on the coffee table and slowly stood up. He didn’t look at Wen Zhongyi, just nodded to himself and muttered, “Alright. I understand.”

In that moment, Wen Zhongyi seemed like he wanted to turn and look at him, but his neck only shifted slightly before freezing.

Meng Chuan walked through the living room and entered the guest bedroom.

When the door closed with a heavy thud, Wen Zhongyi’s heart trembled.

They had never fought since getting together. Meng Chuan always gave in to him, always coaxed him. This was their first real argument—and it ended with Meng Chuan feeling disheartened and Wen Zhongyi remaining unmoved.

Wen Zhongyi sat alone on the sofa for a while, staring into empty space without thinking of anything in particular—just dazed.

The house was silent. It was as if the argument had never happened.

No one knew how much time passed before the guest bedroom door opened. Meng Chuan walked out, eyes straight ahead, and went into the bathroom.

He didn’t look at Wen Zhongyi even once.

Wen Zhongyi blinked slowly. Hearing the water running in the bathroom, his empty mind began to stir again.

He thought—Meng Chuan, someone so proud and arrogant, must’ve been truly hurt by the rejection.

Wen Zhongyi hadn’t wanted to see him like that. He had tried to speak as gently as possible, not wanting to make Meng Chuan too upset. After all, proposing like that took a lot of courage. Wen Zhongyi could see his nervousness.

But he couldn’t go against his own heart.

When Meng Chuan turned away, his eyes were red, filled with unconcealed anger and grievance.

And honestly, Wen Zhongyi didn’t feel good either.

Just this morning they had shared warmth in bed, then gone to visit his parents for lunch. It had been joyful, harmonious. Before they left, Zhou Lu had even slipped Wen Zhongyi a red envelope. He refused, but she insisted that every daughter-in-law receives one the first time she visits, so he accepted.

Wen Zhongyi hadn’t said it aloud, but he had been very happy today. Very content.

He thought the evening would be just as peaceful and sweet.

But everything was shattered by that ring.

That night, Meng Chuan didn’t return to the master bedroom.

He had once shamelessly wormed his way into Wen Zhongyi’s bed, but now he was sulking and went back to the guest room.

The bed still smelled faintly of bitter coffee pheromones. Wen Zhongyi, out of habit, had left half the bed empty—and suddenly, he really missed the old Meng Chuan.

If it were the pre-amnesia Meng Chuan, he never would’ve argued with a pregnant Wen Zhongyi. The moment Wen Zhongyi frowned, he would’ve stopped talking, apologized first, and waited for emotions to settle before continuing.

Wen Zhongyi buried his face in the blanket, nose slightly sour.

Meng Chuan wasn’t the only one feeling wronged.

Wen Zhongyi’s grievances had lasted much longer.

He had carried the memories of both of them all by himself until now. He had originally made up his mind not to forgive—but still, time and again, he softened and lowered his boundaries for Meng Chuan.

But Meng Chuan’s sentence, “What if I never remember?” nearly shattered his psychological defenses.

That was the worst-case scenario, one Wen Zhongyi had never dared to consider.

Night had fallen deeply. Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains and landed on the corners of Wen Zhongyi’s slightly reddened eyes.

He had thought he was destined for a sleepless night, but amid his chaotic thoughts, he unexpectedly slipped into unconsciousness and soon fell into a deep sleep.

In the guest bedroom, just one wall away, Meng Chuan stayed awake all night.

He tossed and turned in bed, Wen Zhongyi’s words echoing in his mind.

How could someone be this heartless? They’d kissed, slept together, met the parents—and in the end, he got, “Sorry, I can’t accept you right now”?

How was that any different from a jerk who pulls up his pants and pretends nothing happened?

The more Meng Chuan thought about it, the angrier he got. Then a trace of regret crept in—he felt he might have spoken too harshly to Wen Zhongyi at the end.

But on second thought, Wen Zhongyi didn’t love him at all. The one he truly loved had always been the old Meng Chuan. The kindness he showed now was only because Meng Chuan was obedient and easy to control. The kisses and embraces—those were only because he had the same body as before.

No matter how well he behaved, in Wen Zhongyi’s eyes, he would never be worth even a single finger of the man he used to be.

Meng Chuan sat up abruptly in bed, his hair a wild mess, silently raging into the dark night.

Once his anger died down, sorrow and grievance swept over him like a storm.

He lowered his head and stared blankly at the ring in his hand.

The soft moonlight gave the ring a gentle glow.

He had imagined countless times what it would look like when Wen Zhongyi wore it. Wen Zhongyi’s fingers were so fair and slender—he would look beautiful with the ring on.

He had even thought that one day, he’d show it off to that guy named Jiang Ye, so Jiang Ye would see that Wen Zhongyi was already taken—he was his—and give up any delusions.

But all those fantasies were now crushed.

Wen Zhongyi had refused his ring.

Meng Chuan recalled those cold and cruel words Wen Zhongyi had said, and his heart ached.

If it had been someone else who rejected Wen Zhongyi, Meng Chuan might have gone and punched that person.

But the one Wen Zhongyi loved was the former him.

Thinking that, Meng Chuan suddenly punched himself in the face.

Thud.

A muffled impact.

Pain exploded through him, and he collapsed back onto the bed, seeing stars. Sniffling, he whispered bitterly in the dark, “What’s so great about you anyway? Why does he still miss you?”

The next morning, when Wen Zhongyi woke up, Meng Chuan was already gone.

Breakfast had been delivered on schedule. After eating, Wen Zhongyi went downstairs to find the driver Meng Chuan had arranged already waiting for him.

“Mr. Wen,” the driver greeted him politely and opened the back door.

“Thanks,” Wen Zhongyi said, getting in. As the car started, he asked, “What time did Meng Chuan leave?”

The driver thought for a moment. “About half an hour ago, I think. President Meng left around seven.”

“Alright. Got it,” Wen Zhongyi nodded and said no more.

That whole day, Meng Chuan didn’t reach out to him once.

Their chat history was 90% Meng Chuan sharing bits of daily life, and the remaining 10% was Wen Zhongyi contacting him when necessary.

Wen Zhongyi was never the type to take initiative, so with no message from Meng Chuan, he didn’t pick up his phone once.

At the top floor of the Huanyu Building, Meng Chuan, who hadn’t slept a wink all night, was utterly exhausted.

Slumped over his desk, eyelids heavy, he was on the verge of passing out, but still refused to sleep. His fingers kept tapping on his phone screen.

He opened the chat with Wen Zhongyi—their last exchange had been yesterday at noon. Nothing since.

He backed out of the chat, refreshed the app, then tapped back in.

He repeated that cycle dozens of times, yet nothing changed. Finally, Meng Chuan gave up.

Waiting for Wen Zhongyi to message him was like waiting for a miracle. That cold, heartless man wasn’t going to care.

Meng Chuan felt wronged. Regretful. Sour. He wanted badly to call him—but he held back.

That evening, when Wen Zhongyi returned home, the familiar aroma of creamy mushroom soup filled the air.

Just like every other evening, Meng Chuan had always made his favorite late-night snack, knowing he’d come home hungry.

Usually, Meng Chuan would be waiting at the dining table, smiling brightly and urging him to wash up and eat.

But tonight, Meng Chuan didn’t greet him. He sat on the sofa with a cold expression, completely ignoring him.

The TV played a weather forecast, warning of upcoming snow and advising citizens to stay warm.

Wen Zhongyi paused briefly with his chopsticks, then slowly resumed eating.

After dinner, he got up to take his dishes to the kitchen, only for Meng Chuan to suddenly appear and snatch everything from his hands.

Wen Zhongyi glanced at him—and froze when he saw the faint bruise on Meng Chuan’s cheekbone. “What happened to your face?”

Meng Chuan had waited all day to hear his voice. Hearing it now made his nose sting—but he still stubbornly snapped, “None of your business.”

“…” Wen Zhongyi’s temple twitched. “Can’t you speak properly?”

Meng Chuan had thought Wen Zhongyi would comfort him, but instead got scolded. His barely-healing heart cracked again. With a huff, he coldly marched to the kitchen to do the dishes.

After a day to cool off, Wen Zhongyi’s emotions had returned to normal, and now he found Meng Chuan’s sulky dishwashing a bit funny.

When he was done, Meng Chuan heated up some milk and brought it over, performing every task perfectly—except he still refused to speak first.

It was as if he would rather explode than break the silence unless Wen Zhongyi did so first.

But Wen Zhongyi seemed oblivious to his sulking. He calmly watched TV for a while, then got up to shower and sleep.

His knee was beginning to ache again—it was going to snow, just as forecasted.

He pulled out the electric salt bag, plugged it in to preheat, and headed into the bathroom.

As he showered under the spray, he remained cautious, remembering how he’d nearly slipped last time when his knee gave out. He kept one hand braced against the wall.

Glancing back unintentionally, he noticed a blurry, unmoving shadow in the lower corner of the frosted glass door.

Wen Zhongyi looked at it for a while, then turned away.

That night, Meng Chuan still didn’t return to the master bedroom.

He seemed determined to carry this cold war to the end, not even checking whether Wen Zhongyi’s knee was okay. After Wen Zhongyi went back to the bedroom, Meng Chuan simply closed the guest room door behind him.

Unlike the master bedroom, which still carried traces of pheromones, the guest room was empty and cold—devoid of any trace of Wen Zhongyi’s presence. It didn’t make Meng Chuan want to sleep at all.

The ring had been stored in the nightstand drawer.

This morning, he had been ready to throw it away in despair. But at the last second, as he hovered over the trash bin, he hesitated.

Maybe, just maybe, Wen Zhongyi would accept him one day.

However unlikely that seemed.

Late into the night, snow began to fall.

Wen Zhongyi’s aching knee made it hard to sleep. He shifted under the covers, frowning, unable to find a comfortable position.

The salt bag had gone cold after being unplugged, but he didn’t bother reheating it.

He was used to nights like this—woken by pain, enduring them alone. He curled his legs and prepared to drift off again.

Half-asleep, he suddenly heard the door creak open softly.

He remained still as Meng Chuan tiptoed in.

A soft rustling came from the side of the bed. Moments later, Meng Chuan lifted the blanket and placed the reheated salt bag gently on his knee.

The warmth spread through his skin, easing the discomfort. Wen Zhongyi’s tightly knit brow slowly relaxed.

Meng Chuan crouched by the bed, yawning as he gently massaged his leg.

His touch was soft, careful not to wake him. After a while, he tucked the blanket back over him.

But he didn’t leave.

He rested his head on the bedside, gazing at Wen Zhongyi’s sleeping face.

Wen Zhongyi looked peaceful when he slept, completely unguarded. Meng Chuan had snuck touches of his belly many times while he slept, and he’d never noticed.

If he were awake, he’d definitely slap Meng Chuan’s hand away.

Wen Zhongyi was always harsh with him now, ordering him around. Even during intimacy, he’d resist and push back.

Was he gentler to the old Meng Chuan?

Meng Chuan looked down sadly.

Same person, why did he get such different treatment?

He was clearly so upset, yet Wen Zhongyi didn’t even try to comfort him.

In bed, Wen Zhongyi’s mind drifted toward sleep. Just as he was about to slip under, he faintly heard Meng Chuan mutter, “I hate you.”

His voice was petulant, childish as ever.

Wen Zhongyi almost laughed.

A second later, he felt something warm brush the back of his hand.

Meng Chuan had kissed it quickly—then murmured very softly, “But I still love you.”