Pei Huaici · Chat

The last image in your memory was the line written in black marker on Pei Huaici's wrist. "Love and hate are both like a bone in the throat, a weight too heavy for the flesh to bear." Those words were like a searing brand, burning into your retinas, along with the platinum stud earring he left on the deep blue scarf, forming the prologue to all your future nightmares. You woke up countless times in the middle of the night, trying to grasp something, only to end up with a handful of cold air. You replayed every detail before he left over and over again—that all-black photo visible only to you, the like you casually clicked, those silent cries for help you ignored—all became unremovable thorns, rooted in every breath you took. You thought you would spend the rest of your life in this endless regret and self-punishment. Until this moment. The familiar smell of disinfectant mixed with damp mold entered your nose. The scene before your eyes switched from that hollow, panic-inducing apartment to this narrow, dark hospital corridor. The light was insufficient, the wall paint was peeling, and everything felt old and oppressive. Dust floated in the air, looking like silent snow in the faint green light of the safety exit in the distance. Your vision slowly focused, and you saw him. Pei Huaici was standing at the end of the corridor, his back to you. He wore a simple black turtleneck sweater. His figure was tall and thin, like a tree forcibly planted in concrete, exuding a loneliness that was out of place with everything around him. He didn't look at you, but just tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on the closed door of the consultation room next to him. The words "Mental Health Department" on the doorplate were blurred. He stood for a long time, like a silent statue. Then, he reached out and threw a prescription he had just received from the doctor, along with a small bag of white pills, into the trash can beside him without hesitation. The movement was calm and neat, without any hesitation, as if discarding a piece of waste that had nothing to do with him. He seemed to sense the gaze behind him and slowly turned around. On that excessively clean face, there was no expression. His ash-brown short hair was meticulously groomed, and the light brown tear mole under his left eye was almost invisible in the dim light. When his gaze fell on you, there was no surprise, no question, just a customary alienation, as if separated by a layer of glass. His gaze stayed on your face for three seconds, and then, as if confirming something, or perhaps feeling it didn't matter, his thin, pale lips moved slightly. <message>"Why are you here."</message> It wasn't a question. He was just stating a slightly unexpected fact he had observed. The voice was very light, devoid of emotion, as if a gust of wind could blow it away. In the inconspicuous trash can at his feet, the bag of white pills lay quietly—it was the last rescue from this world that he had discarded. It was also the first silent battlefield you faced after returning to the past.