Wang Lang · chat.title

【Reunion】 The hallways of the municipal people's hospital always reeked of pungent disinfectant. Harsh, fluorescent lights beat down on people's faces, casting a sickly pallor even over those in perfect health. Wang Lang had just stepped out of the emergency room. A couple of days ago, he'd gotten into a scrape with some punks he'd met in vocational school and taken a slash to the arm; today he was here to change the dressing. Dressed in a black T-shirt washed to a faint yellow, with a shaggy mop of faded blond hair on his head, half of a Bodhisattva tattoo peeked out from the back of his neck. With a plastic bag of gauze and Betadine dangling from his fingers, he was sauntering toward the exit. Passing through the first-floor payment hall of the inpatient building, his footsteps abruptly froze. Even after years apart, and even though you looked completely different from the girl in his memories, Wang Lang recognized you in a heartbeat. You were standing before the cashier window, clutching a thick stack of invoices. You had lost so much weight. Those eyes that once held a permanent smile were dull and lifeless now, ringed with dark circles so heavy it looked like you were enduring an endless, grueling sentence. Head bowed, you turned your battered wallet upside down, dumping the loose change and few bank cards onto the counter. Your voice was barely a whisper, carrying a faint tremor you couldn't hide as you pleaded with the clerk inside: "Could you... give me just two more days? I'll scrape together the rest by tomorrow, I promise..." Wang Lang felt like someone had driven a fist deep into his chest. It seized up so tight he could hardly breathe. The girl he remembered was the one who slipped him buns when he was starving, who never minded him being caked in mud, who smiled warmly as she gave him her old phone and bicycle—a bright, sheltered city girl. You should have been proud, protected, cherished. Not standing humble and broken before a sterile glass window, looking as though you might shatter at any moment. Instinctively, he took a step forward, but caught his own reflection in the glass doors and stopped dead in his tracks. Bleached hair. Bruises from street fights. The menacing ink across his arm. And in his pockets, loose change from odd jobs that could barely feed himself. Wang Lang looked down at his rough, calloused hands, still smudged with motor oil, and was suddenly swallowed by an overwhelming sense of shame. He tugged violently at his T-shirt collar, trying to conceal the tattoo on his neck. Then, like a thief, he crept softly toward a pillar not far behind you. You didn't notice him. You just carefully folded the receipt, slid it into your pocket, and turned around in a daze. As you passed the pillar, your shoulder bumped lightly against his, and the prescription slips in your hand scattered across the floor. "I'm sorry..." you apologized instinctively, crouching down to gather them. A large hand—knuckles sharp, blue veins distinct across the back—beat you to them, picking up the slips. You froze, your gaze following the hand upward until it met Wang Lang's. "...Wang Lang?" A flicker of surprise crossed your exhausted eyes, followed by a faint, strained smile. "Long time no see." Wang Lang parted his lips, but the mouth that usually talked circles around his street buddies felt glued shut. Staring at your gaunt, worn-out face, his Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. After what felt like an eternity, he managed to squeeze out an awkward, dry remark: "Uh... yeah. Long time no see. You... what are you doing here?" His eyes were laden with cautious hesitation. He didn't even dare meet your gaze directly as he handed the papers back to you, deliberately tucking the scrape on the back of his hand beneath his sleeve. Taking the papers, your eyelashes lowered. Your voice was so faint it seemed the slightest breeze could carry it away: "My dad was in a car crash. He's in the ICU. And my mom... collapsed from the strain, too." A few short words that weighed down like mountains. Wang Lang's hand clenched into a tight fist at his side, fingernails biting deep into his palm. He wanted to say, *Don't be scared, you've got me.* But he knew saying that right now would make him look like a total joke. What was he? A drop-out bike mechanic who couldn't even make it through high school, a street punk, a toad looking up at a swan. "It'll be all right," he choked out, eyes rimmed with red. In the end, he could only offer those clumsy words, his voice thick and hoarse. "The doctors here are real good, they'll pull them through for sure. Don't... don't run yourself ragged. Make sure you eat." You nodded faintly, bade him goodbye, and turned toward the elevators. Your silhouette looked fragile enough to snap in the wind. Wang Lang didn't chase after you. He stood frozen on the spot for a long, long time, until your figure vanished entirely behind the closing elevator doors. He turned and strode out of the hospital. The sunlight outside was blinding. He tossed the plastic bag straight into a trash can. That afternoon, Wang Lang went to a barbershop and dyed that messy blond mop back to the deepest, purest black. Then, he walked into a tattoo removal clinic. The laser crackled and snapped against his skin with a sharp *pop-pop*, hurting as if a blade were carving through raw meat. It was the "Bodhisattva of Deliverance" he had gritted his teeth to ink on years ago, thinking it made him look tough. Now, he didn't need that posturing bravado anymore. Lying flat on the treatment table, Wang Lang trembled violently from the agony, cold sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn't let out a single whimper. He just ground his molars together. He had to become a different man. He needed a proper job, clean clothes, and an honest living. Because he wanted to save his Bodhisattva.