That night, Qi Yang didn’t go back to the bedroom to sleep; he was too lazy to move.
Early the next morning, he was woken by Qi Xing patting him. He felt like he was falling through the air—his foot jerked sharply. When he sat up, he realized his head was sorely pressed against the back of his neck, making it ache. He frowned and rubbed it vigorously.
“Ah,” Qi Xing mimicked her brother’s head-scratching motion, probably wondering why Qi Yang was lying there. She tugged at him, trying to drag him back to the bedroom to sleep.
Outside on the balcony, the sky was fully bright. Qi Yang waved his hand, signaling he wasn’t going back to sleep.
Qi Xing blinked twice, then ignored him, shuffling off in her slippers to wash up.
Sitting on the sofa, listening to the sound of water, he took a moment to clear his head. Remembering last night’s events, he rubbed his face, grabbed his phone, and opened the chat with Mu Yicong.
No messages at all.
He tossed the phone aside, his gaze falling on the massage chair Mu Yicong had given him.
“The beginning of your new life has my mark on it.”
That message, sent the day Mu Yicong brought over the massage chair—Qi Yang could still recall every single word, including how he’d felt at the time.
What mark? Bullshit.
He stretched his leg and gave the massage chair a kick. Feeling the force was too strong, he leaned in, checking and rubbing it gently.
The greatest skill life had given Qi Yang was probably the ability, after becoming an adult, to separate his emotions from his daily life.
The words Mu Yicong had spoken that night were like a thorn—neither deep nor shallow, lodged right in his throat. When Qi Yang was busy with work, he couldn’t feel it, but the moment he had a little free time, even a sip of water made the sensation unmistakable.
Like a fish bone stuck in the throat.
He knew that idiom, but afraid he’d misunderstood, he’d even looked up the meaning online. It fit his current mood perfectly.
He always felt there was something wrong with what Mu Yicong had said, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
So instead of disappearing like before—when breaking up meant the relationship was over—Mu Yicong’s shadow kept reappearing. Every time he ate, during his commute, and during the empty hours at home with Qi Xing, it surfaced again and again.
Habits were ridiculous. He’d always lived this way. Even during the “trial dating” with Mu Yicong, the two hadn’t chatted constantly on their phones. Now, they weren’t talking either, yet Qi Yang felt a void around him.
It suddenly occurred to him that knowing someone was there—whether or not they were chatting at the moment, having the privilege to talk to them anytime without worrying about whether it was appropriate or if you were bothering them—might actually be a special kind of privilege.
When they were classmates, he had that privilege.
During the trial dating, he also had it.
But after it ended, everything was reset to zero, and even the identity of “old classmate” ceased to exist.
That realization made Qi Yang a little angry.
Angry at Mu Yicong for acting on his own—saying “let’s try” whenever he wanted, and “let’s end it” whenever he felt like it. Also angry at himself for still thinking about all this junk after being dumped.
He lay back in the massage chair, Photoshopping pictures for Qi Xing’s handcraft journal to post as new content. While editing, he somehow switched over to WeChat again. For the umpteenth time, he opened Mu Yicong’s chat. This time, he tapped into the transfer screen and saw the last character of the real name—Mu Yicong hadn’t deleted him.
If it was over, why keep him around?
Qi Yang stared at his avatar, extremely annoyed, and tapped it.
—You patted “Mu Yicong”
Holy shit.
Qi Yang’s scalp went numb. He threw his phone away.
Qi Xing came out of the bedroom carrying a notebook, shouting “Ah ah” at Qi Yang. She happened to see the phone fly onto the sofa. Her eyes followed the arc of its trajectory.
“What’s up?” Qi Yang asked, rubbing his face.
The phone landed screen-down on the sofa, and at the same time, a message notification sounded. He immediately leaned over to grab it and look. Mu Yicong had replied with the same three words: “What’s up?”
How to describe that instant feeling? The embarrassment from a moment ago, combined with the frustration he’d built up over the past few days—it was like a balloon pricked by a needle, suddenly finding an outlet for release.
By the time he realized the corners of his mouth were lifting, his fingers had already typed a reply: “If it’s over, why reply instantly?”
Mu Yicong went silent again.
After waiting a while, Qi Yang pulled Qi Xing’s head over and ruffled her hair hard. He went to her bedroom, found a sticker, peeled it off, and stuck it on her forehead.
Qi Xing’s two big eyes rolled so far up they nearly became cross-eyed. She strained to look up, then covered her forehead and ran to the bathroom to check the mirror.
That evening, Mu Yicong didn’t reply again, but Qi Yang’s mood was completely lifted.
—They were both men, and he understood Mu Yicong’s personality too well. If he really wanted no contact at all, he would never have asked “What’s up?”
The shift in mood was so obvious that the next day when Sister Li came to work, she saw Qi Yang and said with a smile, “You’re in a good mood today.”
“Huh?” Qi Yang was watching Qi Xing drink her porridge. He turned to her in surprise. “Am I?”
“You sure are.” Sister Li habitually bought the day’s groceries on her way over. As she sorted the bags, she took another look at Qi Yang. “The past few days, your face was all gloomy. Today you look good.”
Qi Yang didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to discussing his personal life with outsiders, so he gave a polite smile and tapped Qi Xing’s bowl with two fingers. “Hurry up and eat.”
Once you start something, there’s always a second time. Over the following period, Qi Yang would send Mu Yicong a message every now and then, on and off.
Meaningless messages. Sometimes asking what he was doing, sometimes just sending “1.” Mu Yicong would sometimes reply, sometimes not even bother.
After too many times, Mu Yicong probably got annoyed. Once, he seriously typed out Qi Yang’s name and asked him what he was up to.
Qi Yang replied: “Nothing special.”
Qi Yang: “Just seeing when you’ll delete me.”
At the top of the screen, the status bar showed “typing…” for a moment, then quickly changed back to Mu Yicong’s name.
Qi Yang twirled his phone and waited.
After a while, Mu Yicong replied: “No need.”
Qi Yang: “No need to try, or no need to delete me?”
He was being deliberate.
Mu Yicong ignored him again.
This back-and-forth, half-hearted conversation almost seemed to pull time back fourteen years to that sweltering summer.
But on one of the hottest nights in early August this year, a big event happened: Ma Jiajia gave birth.
That day, Qi Yang worked overtime at Che Li and got home two hours later than usual. He took a shower, sat down to eat, and casually opened Douyin to check on the account he used to post handcraft journal videos for Qi Xing.
Liu Dameng’s idea to create an account for Qi Xing—Qi Yang hadn’t taken it seriously. If even someone as simple as Qi Xing could ride the traffic wave, it would be too easy.
At first, the videos got zero views. Qi Yang only posted when he remembered and was bored. Views were sometimes single digits, sometimes twenties or thirties. Gradually, a few likes trickled in, and he found it kind of interesting.
But today was different. The last video he’d posted even had a few comments—some praising, some cursing, and those meaningless emojis that looked like they came from bots.
Qi Yang clicked in to take a look, surprised. Just as he was about to check the backend to see where the traffic came from, Liu Dameng called frantically. As soon as he picked up, he heard heavy panting: “Yangzi, my wife is about to give birth!”
Ma Jiajia’s due date was the end of July. Qi Yang had been counting the days a while back, but lately his attention had been on Mu Yicong, so he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t expected the sudden news.
“Good news. Don’t panic.” He quickly ate a couple of bites and asked Liu Dameng, “Which hospital?”
Liu Dameng named the hospital and forced himself to take a deep breath. “I’m so nervous, man! She was overdue. She started hurting yesterday, screaming like crazy…”
“Who’s with you?” Qi Yang asked.
“My mother-in-law and my parents.” Liu Dameng was just flustered and wanted someone to talk to. “You free right now? Come keep me company for a bit.”
“I’m free.” Qi Yang checked the time. “Give me half an hour.”
He called Sister Li back—she had just left—gave her a quick explanation, grabbed his car keys, and rushed to the hospital.
As it turned out, he ended up staying the whole night.
The only thing Qi Yang knew about childbirth was when his mother gave birth to Qi Xing—she’d screamed bloody murder, but the process had been unbelievably smooth.
He didn’t know the details of Ma Jiajia’s situation, only that it seemed more difficult than his mother’s delivery. Watching Liu Dameng pace in anxiety, he didn’t want to ask too many questions. He went over to say hello, then stepped out to buy some bento boxes and energy drinks for the elderly parents on both sides. The rest of the time, he just kept them company.
It was actually a bit awkward. Standing there in front of the whole family, Qi Yang’s presence as an outsider felt rather out of place.
Both sets of grandparents were worried about Ma Jiajia, but they had more life experience and seemed calmer. Liu Dameng’s mother-in-law politely asked who he was. Liu Dameng’s mother knew Qi Yang, and smiled, saying, “This is Dameng’s iron brother since childhood.”
“You’d think you were the one in the delivery room with Jiajia.” Liu Dameng’s mother patted Liu Dameng. “Why’d you have to drag Yangzi over here?”
“I’d really rather go in for her.” Liu Dameng stared at the delivery room door, and overnight a giant blister had formed on his lip.
They waited until the sky started to lighten. A nurse came out to announce that mother and child were safe. Seeing the instant redness in Liu Dameng’s eyes, Qi Yang felt a silent relief.
The family members crowded around to see the mother and baby. Qi Yang didn’t join the commotion. He sent Liu Dameng a message, rubbed his neck, and left.
On the way home, he bought breakfast. Dragging himself in with exhaustion, he found Sister Li drowsily getting up from the sofa, full of apologies: “I’m so sorry, I fell asleep waiting.”
Afraid Qi Yang would misunderstand, she quickly added, “Qi Xing’s fine. I kept an eye on her all night.”
If before he’d only thought Sister Li was a decent person, after last time at Mu Yicong’s house and this night, Qi Yang started to feel a bit embarrassed.
Originally, when they’d hired her, they’d agreed on daytime care only. But recently, he’d called her in to help twice, and she’d never complained. Qi Yang calculated her salary in his head and took out his phone. “This time I’ve got to pay overtime. Sister Li, I’ll transfer the money to you now.”
“Really, no need.” Sister Li was folding the bed sheet from the sofa as she declined. “Coming to help late at night when there’s an emergency—that’s already covered by Mr. Mu’s arrangement. The money he…”
She stopped mid-sentence, as if suddenly wide awake. She clamped her mouth shut, stood up straight, and looked at Qi Yang.
Qi Yang stared back.
“The money,” Qi Yang repeated, word by word, “He did what?”
“He…” Sister Li looked very troubled. “He told me not to tell you.”
