Ever since the day I left him, my stomach had never been right.

I didn't know if it was from anger, exhaustion, or missing him.

Washing up, going out, squeezing into the subway, going to work—everything was normal, yet there was a strange, long-lost sense of alienation.

Walking on the road, I always felt like I had forgotten something important, but I couldn't remember what it was.

At 8:00 PM, just as I reached home, a call from an unfamiliar number came in.

"Mina?" It was Caleb's voice, somewhat hoarse, like someone who had been staying up late for a long time. "I'm in Shanghai. Where are you?"

I gripped my phone tightly, my nails digging into my palms.

It had been three years since we broke up; how could he be in Shanghai?

Why was he looking for me?

I had imagined scenes of our reunion many times.

A chance encounter on the streets of our hometown, or meeting at a mutual friend's wedding.

I had never imagined he would call me directly to say he was in Shanghai.

"Caleb, we have already broken up."

My voice was colder than I had anticipated.

"I know." His voice lowered, carrying a kind of earnestness I had never heard before. "But I want to see you. Just once."

I bit my lip, my mind in a mess.

My reason told me I should refuse, hang up, and delete him from my life completely.

But my fingers had already tapped on my location and sent it to him.

It wasn't because I was sentimental, but because I wanted to speak to him clearly in person.

It was already over between us; he didn't need to waste any more time.

Yes, that was it.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

Caleb stood in the hallway, wearing a dark blue windbreaker, carrying an old duffel bag, his hair messed up by the wind.

The moment his gaze landed on my face, he seemed to be nailed to the spot.

He looked at me, his eyes reddening bit by bit.

I felt completely uncomfortable under his gaze and stepped aside to let him in.

"You've lost weight," he said.

I replied casually, "Work is busy."

His gaze shifted from my face to my abdomen, paused for a second, then moved away.

"Does your stomach still hurt?"

"No," I said.

He didn't pursue the question further and pulled a file folder from his duffel bag, handing it to me.

I tore it open. Inside was a physical examination appointment for the Shanghai No. 1 People's Hospital—a full body check-up, including a painless gastroscopy, dated for next Monday.

The appointment time was clearly written, and even the precautions were printed out; it was clear he had prepared it very carefully.

I looked up at him: "What is the meaning of this?"

"Your stomach was never good before. Go get a check-up."

I looked at the person before me.

An ex-boyfriend from three years ago, having traveled thousands of miles to Shanghai to force me to get a gastroscopy.

Absurd.

What gave him the right? What qualifications did he have to manage my life?

"Caleb, what exactly are you after?"

He looked into my eyes and was silent for a long time.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway went out, and his face plunged into shadow, only his eyes still shining.

"I’m after you not dying."

Those four words slammed into my chest, causing a dull ache.

I turned my face away so he couldn't see my expression.

My eyes burned, but I wouldn't cry.

"Monday, eight in the morning, at the entrance of your complex."

After saying this, he didn't wait for my refusal and turned to leave.

I leaned against the door panel, listening to his footsteps gradually fade away, and slowly slid down to the floor.

The hallway light went out again; I was alone in the dark.

How did he remember everything? Remembering my stomach wasn't good, remembering which apartment complex I lived in.

It had been three years since we broke up; I thought he had forgotten all about me long ago, yet he remembered.

He remembered everything.

Chapter 17

On the day of the surgery, he didn't say a word on the way to the hospital.

The taxi was very quiet; the radio was playing the weather forecast, saying there would be rain today.

I turned my head to look at him; he was staring out the window, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jawline tense.

Once at the hospital, we went through the motions: checking in, signing informed consent forms, changing into hospital gowns.

The hospital gown was too big, and the sleeves were too long, so I rolled them up twice.

When the nurse came to insert the IV catheter, he stood to the side, his hands in his pockets, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his palms.

"Go wait outside," I said.

He shook his head.

He didn't go out; he stood at the head of my bed, his gaze fixed on my face, never looking away from start to finish.

I lay in the hospital bed, pinned there by his stare, feeling entirely uncomfortable.

When I was being pushed into the operating room, he squeezed my hand.

His palms were very dry and hot, and there were thin calluses on his fingertips—I didn't know when those had worn into his skin.

"I'll still be here when you come out."

I said, "Don't make it sound like a final farewell."

He smiled a little, but I saw his fingers trembling.

That subtle, uncontrollable tremor traveled from his fingertips onto the back of my hand.

The anesthesia mask was placed over my face, and his face became increasingly blurred.

I tried hard to keep my eyes open to see his expression clearly, but my eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

Then, I knew nothing more.

When I woke up again, I was lying in the recovery room, my whole body feeling soft and weak, as if all my strength had been drained away.

Someone was holding my hand.

I turned my head and saw him sitting by the bed, his head resting against the edge of the mattress, asleep.

His posture was very awkward; he was curled up in the chair, his neck bent at an angle that couldn't possibly be comfortable, yet he hadn't let go of my hand once.

I didn't pull my hand back, and I didn't speak; I just watched his sleeping face in silence.

His eyelashes were long, fluttering slightly as he slept, and his brow was furrowed—I wondered what he was dreaming about.

His lips were chapped and peeling, and a dark stubble had sprouted on his chin.

He looked even more exhausted than I did.

He woke up when the nurse came in to change the IV.

He jerked his head up, asking before his eyes were even fully open, "How is she?"

"The surgery was a success. The lesion was removed completely, there was no lymph node metastasis, and no chemotherapy is needed."

He froze for a moment. Then, I saw his eyes begin to turn red, bit by bit.

He didn't cry out loud, but he slowly buried his face into my quilt, his shoulders heaving.

I turned my face away, pretending I hadn't seen it.

The incandescent light on the ceiling hummed; it was the same light as a few days ago, yet I felt as if something had changed.

During the days I was hospitalized, he never left my side.

During the day, he sat by the bed, helping me watch the IV drip.

The medicine dripped very slowly—each drop taking several seconds—but he kept his eyes on that drip chamber, never letting his attention wander.

When the nurse came in to change the medication, he would ask the name and function of every bottle, until the nurse found him annoying.

At mealtime, he would go to the hospital cafeteria to get food.

The hospital food wasn't good, but every time, he would pick the meat out of the dishes for me, while he ate the vegetables.

I said I didn't like to eat meat, but he glanced at me and put the meat back in my bowl: "You used to love pork ribs the most."

I was choked up.

Why did this person remember even what I loved to eat? I had almost forgotten it myself.

At night, he slept on the companion chair.

The chair was narrow and hard; he curled up on it, unable to even stretch his legs out.

I told him to go back to the hotel to sleep, but he said the hotel was too far.

I didn't try to persuade him again.

The woman in the next bed asked me in private: "That's your husband, right? He's really good to you."

I shook my head: "No, he's my ex-boyfriend."

The woman's expression was as if she'd seen a ghost; her mouth opened, but in the end, no words came out.