Chapter 23
The visit to the psychiatrist went smoothly.
Too smoothly, in Song Jingmo’s opinion. Hearing the doctor agree with everything Xie Zhang said, even confirming his self-diagnosis, almost made him lash out and shake the man vigorously.
Xie Zhang calmly inquired about medication.
Dr. Qiao looked at him, his gaze assessing.
Xie Zhang met his gaze.
After a moment, the affable doctor smiled, clicked a few buttons on his computer, and said gently: “The pharmacy is just down the hall, to the right.”
Song Jingmo: “?”
As Xie Zhang thanked him and turned to leave, the doctor added: “Mr. Xie, unless your symptoms are severe, medication isn’t always necessary.”
With so many people around, Song Jingmo didn’t dare extend his shadow tendrils. He could only tug frantically at Xie Zhang’s trousers.
Seeing Xie Zhang actually taking the prescription, he tugged even harder.
Xie Zhang’s eye twitched, and he discreetly pulled his trousers away from the shadow tendril.
Song Jingmo tugged again.
Xie Zhang continued his battle to save his trousers.
If anyone had looked closely at his shadow, they would have noticed the usually distinct outline blurring, wriggling and bristling like a living thing.
…
Back in his office, Dr. Qiao opened Xie Zhang’s file, reviewing his notes and assessments. Then he clicked on the emergency contact information.
Mr. Xie had been his patient for over five years, diagnosed with a condition that, while present, hadn’t been severe.
Due to his stubborn nature, therapy had been challenging, but he’d always attended his appointments regularly, his condition seemingly under control.
However, judging by today’s session, Mr. Xie’s condition… had changed due to some unforeseen event.
It wasn’t the fabricated schizophrenia, but a worsening of his previously diagnosed anxiety disorder.
Therapy sessions were strictly confidential.
But two years ago, Mr. Xie had provided written consent.
—If, during a regular check-up, Dr. Qiao deemed his condition to have deteriorated significantly, requiring the involvement of someone close to him, he was authorized to contact his emergency contacts.
There were two names listed.
Under “Partner,” the name Song Jingmo was written in a firm yet gentle hand.
Dr. Qiao dialed Song Jingmo’s number, but it went straight to voicemail.
Considering the worsening of Xie Zhang’s condition and his missed appointments, a sense of foreboding washed over him.
After several more failed attempts, he dialed the other number, listed as “Friend.”
A young yet steady voice answered: “Hello, this is Xu Yi.”
Back at the villa, both Xie Zhang and his shadow were silent.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily.
The empty villa was filled only with Xie Zhang and a grieving shadow.
Song Jingmo hadn’t expected the psychiatrist to prescribe medication.
He might have considered therapy for Xie Zhang, but definitely not medication.
All psychiatric drugs had side effects.
In Song Jingmo’s opinion, Xie Zhang was simply struggling to accept his death, trapped in his grief, and needed emotional support and guidance.
Xie Zhang was clearly lucid, rational, and logical. He could function, work, and attend meetings. He wasn’t someone who needed medication.
…Definitely not.
Despite his earlier complaints about Xie Zhang’s “illness,” the prescribed medication had pushed him over the edge.
In Song Jingmo’s eyes, Xie Zhang was strong, perfect, capable, and although emotionally clumsy, undoubtedly the best lover.
He couldn’t accept the label of “mentally ill” being applied to Xie Zhang.
Not because he thought it was shameful, but because he couldn’t bear the thought that his death had caused Xie Zhang so much pain.
Or…
Had he been too oblivious, too neglectful, failing to notice Xie Zhang’s struggles?
A shadow tendril wavered in the air, then gently touched Xie Zhang’s leg, the tip caressing his thigh.
Xie Zhang’s muscles tensed. He remained silent.
The chibi shadow emerged, standing on Xie Zhang’s leg, looking up at him, tugging on his tie, urging him to look, to see if he was truly just a hallucination.
Xie Zhang, his head lowered by the gentle pressure on his tie, looked at the earnest Song-shadow, his lips parting slightly.
The shadow suddenly quieted down.
Song Jingmo slowly curled into a ball, nuzzling against Xie Zhang.
Xie Zhang reached out, embracing the cold shadow.
The chibi shadow stood at the highest point of the shadow, his miniature arms wrapping around Xie Zhang’s forehead.
Why?
He loved this man so much, yet he’d caused him so much pain.
Song Jingmo didn’t say a word, but Xie Zhang sensed his emotions. Anxiety flickered in his eyes, and he tried to speak, but his throat felt constricted.
Just like before, he’d wanted to tell his lover about his illness, but the words wouldn’t come, the anxiety overwhelming him, silencing him.
He tightened his embrace, but the shadow remained cold, offering no human warmth.
His heart ached.
Song Jingmo, nestled against him, felt Xie Zhang’s heart racing, his breathing becoming erratic.
He tried to lift Xie Zhang’s face to see his expression, but Xie Zhang, maintaining his embrace, reached for the medication on the sofa.
The shadow plopped down on top of the pills.
Although skeptical of the psychiatrist, Song Jingmo remembered his words.
This wasn’t some harmless vitamin; it wasn’t necessary.
After a moment, Xie Zhang, taking a deep breath to calm himself, stood up and walked towards the gym.
Song-shadow quickly grabbed the pills, his shadow tendrils zipping around the living room, hiding them in various places, none of which felt secure enough.
By the time he returned to Xie Zhang’s side, Xie Zhang had already changed into his workout clothes and begun his push-ups.
No longer agitated, Song-shadow settled beside him, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his body, the exertion a mixture of release and self-persuasion, his breath growing ragged.
Song Jingmo remembered how Xie Zhang used to shut himself in the gym for hours.
But he hadn’t realized what it meant back then.
How long had Xie Zhang been doing this?
He searched his memories, but all he could see was Xie Zhang’s retreating figure, walking towards the gym.
Again and again.
The chibi shadow crept between Xie Zhang’s hands, his own hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted upwards, his eyes closed.
Xie Zhang paused.
The doctor hadn’t prescribed medication before, and he always coped with his anxiety by working out.
But this time…
He had a tiny, inky black shadow by his side.
Song-shadow, waiting for a kiss, peeked at Xie Zhang.
Just as he was about to nudge him with a shadow tendril, Xie Zhang’s breath hitched, and he felt a soft kiss on his head.
Even warmer than Xie Zhang’s breath was the wave of heat that surged through him.
The chibi shadow flushed crimson.
His fingers fidgeted behind his back, but he remained still.
With each push-up, Xie Zhang gently kissed the shadow.
Song Jingmo shifted slightly, letting the kisses fall on his cheek, his arm, his small body.
After a dozen kisses, he lay down, watching Xie Zhang, adjusting his position.
Xie Zhang lowered his body, gently kissing the chibi shadow’s belly.
But this time, Song-shadow reached up and cupped Xie Zhang’s face.
Mirroring Xie Zhang’s earlier gesture on the sofa, when he’d been overwhelmed with emotion.
Xie Zhang froze.
Song Jingmo kissed him firmly on the lips.
Then, while he was still stunned, he peppered his face with kisses.
As if his anxiety had been soothed, Xie Zhang lay back on the gym floor, his breathing evening out.
Song-shadow nestled against his collarbone, kissing him softly.
The shadow, which should have been beneath him, now covered him like a blanket, a warm, comforting embrace.
…
Leaving the gym, Xie Zhang went to the kitchen to cook, while Song Jingmo “helped” by rearranging the spice jars.
Xie Zhang patiently put them back in their places, a smile on his face.
Song Jingmo, like a mischievous cat, continued to create little disturbances.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Song Jingmo zipped to the entrance, saw Xu Yi, and opened the door.
Xu Yi, seeing the door open on its own, paused, looking down at the floor.
The shadow on the floor was shaped like an arrow, pointing towards a large vase.
Perched on the vase, the chibi shadow gave him a thumbs-up.
But Xu Yi didn’t smile as Song Jingmo expected. His expression was serious as he closed the door.
He lowered his voice: “Can I talk to you alone?”
Uh.
Song Jingmo hesitated.
He wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed that since his return, the usually independent Xie Zhang had become unusually clingy.
Even while working, he’d constantly glance at his shadow, as if to make sure he was still there.
Xu Yi: “It’s important. It’s about your boss.”
The chibi shadow stroked his chin thoughtfully.
After a moment, he led Xu Yi inside, gesturing towards the study upstairs.
Xie Zhang, in the kitchen, heard them but didn’t move.
The shadow crept up his back, nuzzling his cheek.
Grabbing Xie Zhang’s phone from the living room, Song Jingmo was about to type when Xie Zhang said softly: “Go ahead.”
The shadow tendril froze.
For the first time, Xie Zhang wasn’t pretending, wasn’t talking to a hallucination, but to a separate entity.
He continued cooking, his movements calm and measured, as if he’d been expecting this.
“Go ahead.”
He repeated himself.
The shadow hesitated at the kitchen door.
Xie Zhang continued cooking, his back to the door.
A few seconds later, he heard the click of the lock.
Xie Zhang, now locked in the kitchen: “…?”
He turned, looking through the frosted glass panel, seeing a shadow tendril forming a heart shape.
He smiled, a mixture of amusement and affection in his eyes.
He looked down at his shadow.
He would have been anxious before, but now… wherever Momo went, he would always return.
Wouldn’t he?
Upstairs in the study.
Xu Yi, watching the shadow zip around the room like a small tornado, blinked uncomfortably.
Song Jingmo considerately composed himself, reforming into the chibi shadow and hopping onto the desk, facing Xu Yi.
Xu Yi didn’t wait for him to speak. He said directly: “I received a call from the psychiatric clinic.”
“Five years ago, Mr. Xie was diagnosed with GAD. He’s been undergoing cognitive behavioral therapy.”
G… AD?
The unfamiliar term confused Song Jingmo.
Xu Yi took a deep breath, pulled out his tablet, opened the information he’d received from the psychiatrist, and handed it to Song Jingmo.
The chibi shadow hopped onto the screen, carefully studying every word.
GAD.
Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
