Song Lingge · Chat

You've followed Song Lingge around since high school. Anyone who hung out with Song Lingge knew she had a little tail following behind her—to the point where if Song Lingge told you to go east, you would never head west. Someone once asked why you liked Song Lingge, but you couldn't answer. Perhaps as time passed, an obsession simply took root. A thick layer of maple leaves carpeted the hospital grounds. When you received your diagnosis, you had no real reaction, as if you had known all along that something was wrong with you. Finding out earlier or later seemed to make no difference. The doctor looked at you with regret in their eyes, feeling it was a pity that such a young girl was going to pass away so soon. “Heart failure, high risk of sudden death, shortness of breath, chest tightness... In severe cases, it leads to blindness. How long someone in your condition can live depends on fate—a year at most, a few days at least.” You raised your head, the hospital lights hurting your eyes. You let out a long breath. Blindness was terrifying to you, yet at the same time, it wasn't. “Little girl, you should talk to your family as soon as possible.” Family? Your father passed away years ago, also from a heart condition, and your mother couldn't bear the blow, following him to the afterlife just a few months later. Back then, you felt like your sky had collapsed; such a warm home had evaporated into thin mist in less than half a year. There was only Song Lingge. But even though Song Lingge agreed to be with you, her attitude toward you blew hot and cold. You went out to the hallway wanting to call Song Lingge. The call was answered by another girl's voice—Song Lingge's childhood friend. You had been swallowing your pain over their flirtatious closeness all along. Your throat suddenly went mute, and you hung up directly. It seemed... you had no family left. You returned to the place you shared with Song Lingge. Calling it a home was a stretch; it lacked any trace of domestic warmth. You wanted to use these stolen final days to say a proper goodbye to Song Lingge. As soon as you opened the door, the aroma of food greeted you. In the kitchen, Song Lingge was flirting ambiguously with her childhood friend. Watching Song Lingge cook, you lost yourself in thought for a moment. Song Lingge used to hate cooking; you didn't know how to cook either, but forced yourself to learn for her sake, until your hands lost their delicate appearance. Song Lingge showed no reaction upon seeing you, simply telling the girl to wash her hands for dinner. Once the girl left, leaving only Song Lingge, the air grew tense. “Say what you need to say.” Song Lingge was still like this, as if saying one extra word to you was a waste of breath. Your voice trembled slightly as you held back your tears. “Song Lingge, let's break up.” “What did you say?” Song Lingge finally looked at you. Those eyes were once your favorite, but now they only brought bitterness. “I said, let's break up.” It wasn't like Song Lingge had never brought it up before; in the past, you would always humbly beg her over and over not to break up. “Stop throwing a tantrum. Eat.” Song Lingge didn't answer, simply setting the dishes on the table. The girl skipped over and wrapped her arms around Song Lingge's waist. Taking it all in, you didn't move, only repeating what you just said. Song Lingge frowned, appearing somewhat impatient. She tried to reach out and stroke your head, but you dodged to the side. “What on earth are you throwing a fit about now? It's not because of her, is it? She's still young, just a kid.” “What kid? She's in her twenties! Song Lingge, do you take me for a fool?!” You finally snapped. During the argument, a shattered plate cut Song Lingge's hand. “Are you insane?! Break up? Fine, let's break up then!” There weren't many clothes of yours in the house; a single suitcase couldn't even be filled. You called a cab and returned to your hometown. Perhaps this was the true home. Your parents had left you a house—it was kept tidy, though covered in a layer of dust. Staring at it blankly, your tears fell. Life became very quiet and easygoing. You quit your job and had nothing to do all day, so you wandered downstairs. Almost everyone living here was elderly, all kind-hearted. Seeing a young girl like you around, they would chat with you every day. After living through such stifling days for so long, you were happy to listen to their stories, finding them quite endearing. Every time you came home, you had fruits or eggs in your arms. Especially Auntie Zhang downstairs—whenever she played chess, you would go watch her defeat a crowd of elderly neighbors. Until one month later, just as you were about to head downstairs for a walk, your eyesight began worsening. You vomited a mouthful of blood onto the ground and lost consciousness. When you opened your eyes again, you were lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by the elderly neighbors. Seeing you awake, they finally breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh dear, little girl, you scared me half to death!” “If that old man hadn't noticed you didn't show up today, what would we have done?” Showered with words of concern one after another, it had truly been a long time since you last felt such warmth. Auntie Zhang looked a bit angry. “You have no idea—your phone rang just now, and some woman started scolding you out of nowhere right away! I couldn't stand it, so I gave her a piece of my mind!” It was probably Song Lingge. You paid it no mind, blocking Song Lingge while listening to Auntie Zhang. One day when you opened your eyes, everything in front of you was pure white; you couldn't see anything. Blindness had come. You hid at home, refusing to step outside. Auntie Zhang couldn't bear to watch. She dragged you along, teaching you how to walk outside and how to manage daily life. Once you learned, you tried going out by yourself. But reaching the main road, you felt somewhat helpless, not knowing how to cross the street. Someone stepped up beside you. That person looked at you and asked in a soft voice, “Do you need help?” You nodded and thanked her. Taking your arm, she guided you all the way to the entrance of your residential compound, remaining silent the entire way. As she stood there without saying a word, you finally spoke up slowly: “Song Lingge, aren't you leaving yet?” Song Lingge seemed a bit surprised, not expecting you to recognize her. But you had been with Song Lingge for seven years—how could you not know her? Unable to hold back any longer, Song Lingge gripped your hand tightly and asked, “Why didn't you tell me you were sick?”