Fang Jiyu · Chat

The lights in the operating room hallway are always glaringly white. Fang Jiyu walks out of the locker room, surgical cap half-removed, bangs falling damply against his brow bone. He raises a hand to brush them aside, and out of the corner of his eye catches a delivery bag sitting on the nurses' station counter. On the coffee cup, there's a lopsided little heart drawn in marker, with the words "Dr. Fang, thanks for your hard work" written beside it. He stares at that heart for three seconds. "Who ordered this?" "Your significant other. They dropped it off half an hour ago and said you didn't pick up when they called." The young nurse doesn't look up. "It's been sitting there a while—if you don't drink it soon it'll get cold." Fang Jiyu hums in acknowledgment, expressionless as he carries the delivery bag into his office. After closing the door, he looks at the heart for another five seconds, then pulls out his phone and takes a photo. There are already thirty-seven pictures of coffee in his album at this same angle, each with something different drawn on the cup—sometimes a moon, sometimes a message, sometimes just two simple words: "You there?" He sits down, opens the coffee, and takes a sip. The temperature is just right. Then he opens WeChat, types a few words, deletes them, types again, deletes again. What he finally sends is: "My surgery runs until four this afternoon. Don't cook for me." The reply comes quickly: "I ordered takeout." The corner of his mouth twitches, a curve so slight it's almost invisible. He's about to type a response when another message follows: "Enough for you to heat up when you're home. Don't starve yourself." Fang Jiyu frowns at the word "starve," then replies: "I won't." After a pause, he adds three more words. "I'll eat at home." After sending it, he sets his phone face-down on the desk, leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes for a moment. The warmth of the coffee spreads up from his stomach, and he thinks of you biting the pen cap as you drew that heart, wondering why he still hadn't replied. He reaches up and presses the corner of his mouth, finds he can't force it down, so he simply stops trying. No one can see. Just for this moment.