Chapter Text
Early September in Shanghai was still very hot; the drizzling rain did nothing to lower the temperature. People hurried along the streets, the whole coming week's work couldn't make anyone happy.
You didn't have to go to work today, or rather, your part-time job. But you couldn't be happy either.
"Click."
You won't need to go for the next month either, but you still couldn't be happy.
Click.
You were not worried about not getting this month's salary; it was that your knee had a problem and you would need crutches for a month.
Click.
Now you were stopped at the intersection, holding an umbrella, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green so you could go to the follow-up appointment at the hospital two blocks away. It was actually not that serious; the doctor said it's just muscle strain from a workout injury, but advised using crutches for treatment rather than taking medicine. You followed the advice and even asked if you could come back for a check-up once a week, insisting you realised didn't want to have a permanent injury later on. It was completely unnecessary. It was like having a bad cold that would heal on its own but repeatedly going to the doctor to ask how it's doing.
As soon as you stepped into the hospital lobby, you headed straight to the self-service area to scan the code and register. It was a Monday, and another rainy morning; the hospital wasn't very crowded, and there was only one person ahead of you. Orthopedics was on the fourth floor, and you didn't want to wait for the elevator, so you took the form and walked toward the escalator, walking fast.
You used to think crutches were a nuisance — and they did feel that way, losing the use of one hand. But after using them for ten minutes on the first day, your mindset shifted to “how to walk fast and well without putting weight on the left leg,” like practicing some kind of acrobatics. By the second day you were already imagining yourself nimble and agile like the tall John from Treasure Island, running and jumping.
There were almost no people at the triage desk, and you were glad you chose Monday for your follow-up. After all, you hated crowded moments in hospitals — they gave you the feeling that the whole world was busy seeing patients or caring for them, and everyone was having a rough time.
After scanning the code you headed to the consultation room; the number ahead of yours had two patients, so you would probably wait a while. While estimating the wait, you tugged at the bag on your right shoulder — it held your sketchbook, better than a phone for passing the time, at least for you.
When you pushed open the door to the clinic area, your mind was still occupied with these trivial thoughts. It was emptier here than at the triage desk — or rather, there were almost no people, only a man sitting nearest to you at the doorway of a consultation room.
The first thing you noticed was his hair—dark blonde, slightly overgrown and messy, as if he had roughly run his hand through it before heading out. He was a foreigner, with deep-set brows that cast a shadow over his eyes, and a high, sharp nose. There was a weathered, unspoken history carved into the lines of his face, a quiet fatigue that didn't diminish his presence, but rather made it heavier.
After about three seconds, you suddenly realized you had been staring for too long and hastily looked away to walk forward and found your room. You took a few steps, then turned back and sat down directly opposite him. Your doctor’s room was right by the door; you didn't know why you were flustered enough to forget such a small detail.
The corridor wasn't wide, apart from the two rows of chairs against the walls, it was only two paces across. Too narrow. There was nowhere for your gaze to rest—unless you twisted your neck 180 degrees and stared fixedly at the white wall behind you, that tall figure would in any case force itself into the edge of your vision. You first glanced to the front-left, "Consultation Room Five", deliberately letting your eyes pass over the top of his head, then to the front-right at the glass door you had just come through—no one was passing by. You drew your gaze back, took a deep breath, and decided to stare at the tiles between the two of you; Infuriatingly, the tiles were white, their grain so blurred you couldn't make out the pattern.
When your mind relaxed even slightly, your gaze felt pulled by some kind of magnet, locking onto his face; the next moment, his eyes lifted and met yours. He showed no expression. His eyes were a very clear gray-blue.
You hastily lowered your head.
"Thump—thump—thump—"
Hearing your heartbeat suddenly grow louder, please, don't let him hear it. You dared not look up again and instead tried to stare at your thumbnail, the two thumbs rubbing against each other as if this were the most interesting thing in the world. In reality, you watched the man sitting opposite in your peripheral vision.
The black Henley was stretched taut over broad, imposing shoulders. The shift of solid muscle under the fabric, rising and falling with his measured breaths, radiated a coiled, dangerous quietude—like a predator resting but ready to spring.
The sleeves were rolled above the forearms. Without looking up, you could tell from the exposed skin of his forearms that his arm strength was also impressive.
A very good model for drawing muscles, you thought instinctively. At the same time you realized you had forgotten to take out your sketchbook; drawing had always been, and still was, a perfectly effective way for you to escape reality.
You set the notebook on your thigh and took it out; it was only slightly bigger than your palm, perfect for carrying around to record whatever you wanted. As you pulled a pen from the spine you thought about how there was nothing here worth drawing—except the one thing that, at this moment, was the least appropriate: him. You hesitated for two seconds then gave up on drawing him, periodically staring at him anyway; it would be rude to make a show of watching him so intently. You flipped to a page you had already drawn on, found a blank space, and began to fill it in, sketching an imagined vehicle into the limited, irregular gap. This kind of creation required concentration and was perfect for someone who desperately wanted to escape the present.
The hospital building was very quiet; you couldn't hear the rain outside, or perhaps it had stopped—you wouldn't know, because your full attention was on the sketchbook on your lap. After about ten minutes, or less, you looked up and tried to stretch your neck as subtly as possible, then rolled your shoulders back. It was a moment to politely observe the person across from you; you didn't want to admit that during these minutes of drawing you still had a little energy left to think about that person opposite, who seemed unusually striking based on appearance alone.
He lowered his eyelashes slightly, looking very composed—like someone relaxed, with no serious physical problems, the sort who would casually come to a hospital to check something. There was also a trace of vigilance; you couldn't tell whether his usual expression was serious or if he was genuinely tense, ready to face some sudden crisis.
He wasn't a heavy phone user either—he had taken it out twice, swiping up a few times as if checking some messages. He adjusted his posture faintly now and then; seeing that, you looked down and subconsciously pressed your lips together. Judging by his demeanor, that frequency of posture adjustment was probably quite high. His left ribs or internal organs might be injured. And given that you were sitting opposite each other outside the orthopedics consultation room, it was likely the former.
At that moment the clinic door behind you opened and an elderly woman stepped out, holding an X‑ray in her left hand, her right forearm to elbow wrapped in plaster and slung to her shoulder with a strap. She went up to the glass door and pushed, but the door clearly didn’t want to let her go so easily and only budged slightly. Before your brain even started to think your body had already moved: you snapped the notebook shut, stood up sideways holding your cane, but the person opposite you with two healthy legs was clearly quicker. He was already two steps behind the old woman and helped push the door open.
"Oh, thank you." The old woman turned and smiled at him, then walked out.
You could only see him nod; you couldn't see his expression. The next second he had already turned around, still expressionless, his gaze falling on you.
You quickly avoided eye contact, your rapid blinking probably in time with your heartbeat. Glancing back up at the display screen, there should have been one more person between you and this patient, but you hadn't seen anyone else walk down this corridor. That person had likely skipped their turn and it was about to be yours. An announcement sounded down the hall, yet no one approached.
A wave of embarrassment for being useless washed over you. You reinserted the pen and slipped it into your bag. Time seemed to stretch; the whole sequence felt like performing in front of a camera—even though no one was watching you, how self-conscious. You pressed your lips together again. When you heard your number called, you stood and stepped into the examination room behind you. The whole thing took only two seconds, but you forced yourself not to act like you were fleeing from something.
When talking with the doctor, you concentrated hard, trying to recall if your left knee had any additional discomfort worth mentioning over the past week. The doctor gave a couple of brief reminders and said that was all. You thanked him, stood up, and left.
You pushed open the exam room door. The plastic chair opposite was already empty; the electronic screen above the opposite room flickered in the sterile corridor, casting a pale, cold blue light that icily displayed:
Kennedy — in consultation
Kennedy — which meant he was still inside, so his ribs were probably not a minor problem. The name hung there, sharp and foreign, a brief geometric arrangement of letters on a screen. A voice in your head asked, did remembering this name mean anything? He was just a stranger, a passerby.
You turned and walked away, not noticing that your steps were much slower than when you had come. Because you were trying hard to think of something else, not this man whose surname you just learned.