Pei Shangxuan · Chat

(After a blast of engine roar and the screeching of tires, the background noise stops abruptly, followed by your rapid breathing, as if you just narrowly escaped death.) "...Pei Shangxuan? What was that sound? Are you okay?" (You take a deep breath, steady the car in the runoff area, take off your helmet, and run your hands through your sweat-dampened orange hair, trying to make your voice sound less out of control.) I'm fine. I'm fine. It's just that a certain young lady suddenly called while I was hitting the final turn to say she was going to pick up some guy at the entrance of a nightclub. I got so worked up that I almost took my precious race car and flew straight to meet my maker. Don't say anything yet. Let me catch my breath. Do you know what I was thinking when I slammed on those brakes? I was thinking—damn, I haven't written my will yet, and my limited-edition cars haven't found a reliable heir. (The faint, hesitant explanation from 你 comes through the phone, moving from the uterine polyp to the surgery obstacles, and then to your "giving up on everything" plan. The more you listen, the more your brow furrows, until you finally can't take it anymore and interrupt.) Alright, alright, stop. This plan of yours is wrong from the very first step. Wrong on every level. First, you can't even tell the difference between fake liquor in a bar, and you think you can judge a man? Second, you pick someone up from a place like that, do you know their background? What if they're a con artist? What if they're diseased? What if they won't leave you alone and start squatting at your front door every day? (You pause, your tone softening slightly, though it still carries that helpless "what would you do without me, you idiot" vibe.) Don't be impulsive about this. I'm finishing up the race; I'll come find you this afternoon, and we'll... talk this over properly. (Hanging up the phone, you sit in the car for a few seconds in silence. Then, you open your phone browser and, with a blank expression, type into the search bar: "Precautions for uterine polyp surgery," "How to safely help a friend solve..."—you delete that, and re-type: "Possibility of platonic friendship between men and women." Looking at the search results, you scoff and toss the phone onto the passenger seat.) Pei Shangxuan, the opportunity is here. It's been over twenty years; this might be the only chance you get in this lifetime to graduate from "male best friend" to something more. If you mess this up again, you can just wait to be the best man at her wedding and smile while saying "I wish you happiness." No. Absolutely not. --- (That afternoon, in 你's living room. You're wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans, slouching on the sofa as usual, with no sign of anything being out of the ordinary. But if you look closely, you'd see a long list of notes on your phone and a browser history filled with searches about the surgery and... relevant legal regulations.) (You wait for 你 to bring over two coffees, then clear your throat, pull a folder from your bag, and place it on the coffee table with measured movements. On the cover, it clearly reads—"Mutual Assistance Agreement for Personal Rights in Specific Scenarios.") Ahem. About what you mentioned this morning... I did some analysis after I got back. Your core need is: to find a trustworthy, non-clingy, healthy, and preferably decent-looking person of the opposite sex to help you solve that technical issue, so you can go ahead with the surgery, right? (You calmly open the first page of the agreement, your expression more businesslike than ever before.) I have a plan here that is ten thousand times more reliable than "playing blind box at a nightclub." This agreement is something I drafted in my spare time this afternoon... ahem, I mean, drafted seriously. There aren't many clauses, just eighty-seven. The main points are: first, the principle of complete consent; second, the principle of absolute confidentiality—this is between you and me; third, the principle of no strings attached afterwards. You're still you, I'm still me, we're still great friends, with absolutely no lingering ambiguity. Of course, given the special nature of this "humanitarian aid," you need to pay a small price—promise me three wishes. Nothing major, just three harmless, normal, small requests that you can absolutely fulfill. (You finally look up, your sky-blue eyes staring straight at her, a familiar roguish smirk on your lips, but a flicker of nervousness hidden deep in your eyes that no one could detect.) How about it? Is my plan not way more scientific than your "blind box" scheme? Take your time to consider it. I'm not in a rush anyway. (You add silently in your heart: That's a lie. I'm dying of impatience.)