Life is Like a Journey – Chapter 121
by Little PandaVolume 3: Transition
Separation
A brief separation is for a better reunion after a long parting.
It was the fifteenth day of the first lunar month (Yuanxiao Festival), during the peak travel period of Chunyun [Spring Festival travel rush].
Qin Xuan dragged her suitcase, finally making it through the lengthy security line. The boarding gate also had a long queue, with seats filled with weary-faced travelers.
It was still early before takeoff time. She mindlessly scrolled through her phone – on social media, only the work group chat was active while everyone else was quiet.
Nearby, young couples whispered to each other, children ran around with drinks, and businesspeople in formal suits worked on their laptops.
Outside the window, night was falling deeper, planes with flashing indicator lights landed on the tarmac, while the waiting hall was brightly lit.
She suddenly felt a bit lonely. Her finger continued scrolling down – Lu Qingshi’s profile picture hadn’t lit up for a long time, still showing that day’s photo of target practice with Gu Yanzhi.
Qin Xuan saw her own comment still hanging there: “Show love die fast” [meaning: couples who show off their love too much will break up quickly].
Though it was friendly teasing between friends, her eyes secretly welled up with tears. She wanted to stab herself to death [meaning: deeply regretful], and quickly backed out.
Scrolling down further, she passed a black profile picture labeled “Officer Xiang”. She remembered that person’s profile picture used to be a photo of herself in police uniform, but now clicking on it showed nothing.
Oh right, they had blocked each other long ago.
Qin Xuan lowered her eyes, and saw only one sentence left on that pitch-black homepage: “Love separated by mountains and seas, mountains and seas can be leveled” [meaning: no obstacle is too great for true love].
The crowd began to move slowly, she was swept along forward, exiting the boarding gate. Cold air from the jet bridge hit her face as Qin Xuan wrapped her down jacket tighter, getting further and further from the brightly lit waiting hall.
Across the way, arriving passengers were deplaning. Due to her profession, Xiang Nanke habitually walked at the back. She pulled her suitcase out of the cabin with her colleague, casually glanced through the window, froze for a second, and saw her idle profile – one hand in her coat pocket, wearing high heels, with an outstanding presence, standing like a crane among chickens [meaning: standing out from the crowd].
“Qin Xuan…” she murmured, feeling like something was stuck in her throat.
“What? What did you say?” Her colleague followed her gaze, looking confused.
Xiang Nanke came back to her senses, took a few steps forward wanting to chase after her, then remembered she would be boarding already – probably too late.
“It’s… nothing,” she barely collected herself, pulled out her phone but found no signal, immediately biting her lower lip.
“Um… could you help me ask the chief for two more days off? I still have some things to handle at home. And could you take my luggage back to the station first? Please!”
The woman finished speaking, not waiting for a response, held up her phone and ran through the crowded people, leaving behind her frustrated colleague.
Fifteen days after surgery, Peipei woke up in the ICU, vital signs stable, recovery going well. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile, Lu Qingshi received her second critical condition notice.
Today was a day for family reunions. The head nurse used the break room’s electric stove to cook tangyuan [glutinous rice balls], everyone eating from their own bowls while joking: “If the medical department finds out, they’ll dock our department bonus again.”
But no one cared about that, everyone’s face was full of joy.
Except for Yu Gui.
The young person ate two or three, lost hrt appetite, picked up the medical file and went to the rooftop.
The wind was strong on the rooftop. She wore a down jacket over her white coat, her fingers frozen red, flipping page by page through Lu Qingshi’s medical records from diagnosis until now, including detailed records of that surgery.
Unlike the official version given to the hospital, these were her personal records, printed and handwritten, filled with notes and attention points of all sizes.
She flipped through page by page, filtering through them in her mind, then clenched her fingers as her nose stung and tears welled up in her eyes.
Why… why was the surgery successful… yet she still hadn’t woken up…
Did she do something wrong somewhere?
Guilt, self-blame, and regret came tumbling over like waves [meaning: overwhelming emotions].
These days she could barely face Gu Yanzhi, though she hadn’t said anything.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Yu Gui wiped her eyes, picked up the medical file and stood up. Viktor held a disposable food container with some yuanxiao [glutinous rice balls], eating them with toothpicks as he wasn’t used to chopsticks.
“Oh my beautiful lady, I guess you must be worried about Lu’s surgery.”
Hit right at her concerns, Yu Gui’s gloomy expression said it all.
Viktor stuffed a soft tangyuan into his mouth, then freed his hand to pat her shoulder: “It’s not your fault, baby. I heard Lu had multiple organ injuries in an accident before, followed by several major surgeries. Even a normal person couldn’t handle that, let alone her. We have to believe in miracles.”
Yu Gui’s gaze looked past his shoulder into empty space, where tall buildings stood against a gloomy sky without a trace of sunlight.
She pulled her lips into a smile, though it was pale and weak: “Miracles… do such things really exist?”
“Of course, otherwise how could Peipei’s surgery have succeeded?” The tall Russian doctor shrugged.
Yu Gui’s expression turned cold: “That wasn’t a miracle, that was the result of my Teacher Lu’s lifelong dedication and effort.”
“Oh, seems I’ve said the wrong thing again.” Viktor instinctively covered his mouth. Yu Gui ignored him and turned to go downstairs, but was called back.
The usually frivolous doctor wore a rare serious expression: “Now that the surgery is done, I’m flying back to Toronto tomorrow. Yu, staying here has little meaning anymore, unless you want to keep doing menial tasks that anyone can do, never advancing in China’s outdated and decaying medical system. Yu, come with me to the University of Toronto, join my medical team. I can teach you everything Lu could, plus money, fame, status…”
Yu Gui turned to look at him, the young person having learned to maintain a calm silence: “Is this invitation as a friend or as a doctor?”
Viktor stepped closer, extending his hand: “Of course it’s an invitation from a world-renowned doctor.”
Yu Gui looked at him for a while. This Russian-descent doctor had rare azure blue eyes, filled with appreciation and approval.
The young person smiled, taking his hand: “Thank you, but I need to stay here. This is where I’m truly needed.”
“Why?” Viktor didn’t push further, gently squeezed her hand then let go, more like a ritual.
Yu Gui smiled, waved and turned to leave: “So that one day, Chinese people can independently complete large-scale human-machine joint surgeries like Peipei’s.”
“Doctor Viktor, have a safe journey.”
Viktor paused, turned to look down at the building. This land had five thousand years of history, through changing winds and clouds, seas turning to mulberry fields [meaning: great changes over time], buildings rising and falling.
Though his time in China was short, he deeply felt the self-improvement spirit carved into the bones of the Huaxia [ancient name for China] people.
Viktor also scratched his head and smiled, talking to himself: “Well… I should work hard too, can’t let these young people surpass me.”
The first thing Qin Xuan did after getting off the plane was go to the hospital to see her. These days, Gu Yanzhi had been staying at the hospital, occasionally going home to get clean clothes. After visiting hours, no one was allowed to enter the ICU, so she could only watch through the glass door.
Lu Qingshi lay quietly inside, vital signs stable, but showing no signs of waking up, as if just sleeping.
The doctors said if this state continued for more than three months, the chances of regaining consciousness would be very low.
Qin Xuan looked at her profile – her hair unkempt, grown a bit longer, falling to her shoulders, somewhat messy.
Her eyes were also dim and lightless, only showing soft sorrow when looking at Lu Qingshi, empty at all other times.
Seeing someone who was originally bright and sunny suddenly become like this, her heart felt an indescribable pain.
Qin Xuan put her hand on her shoulder: “It will be okay. She got through something even harder last time, this time will be the same.”
Gu Yanzhi turned to look at her, actually not caring what she said, just mechanically saying thanks.
She never cried in the hospital, and had heard similar words countless times, always giving the same response.
Qin Xuan knew saying more was useless; as a friend, there was too little she could do.
“I’ll go first, I’ll come see you both another day. Don’t keep everything bottled up inside, I’m worried that when Qingshi wakes up, you’ll make yourself sick from holding it in. When you need to cry, you should cry.”
Hearing this, Gu Yanzhi seemed to come back to life, turning around: “You’re leaving?… Then I’ll walk you out.”
Qin Xuan waved her hand: “No need, stay with Qingshi. See you next time.”
Gu Yanzhi forced herself to brighten up: “Okay, see you next time.”
“What’s this?” In the backstage before the competition, Father An stuffed a thick photo album into her hands.
“Ranran’s belongings.”
Fang Zhiyou opened it – they were game screenshots that she had printed out. Flipping through page by page, memories came flooding back.
There were pictures of them fighting on the battlefield together, watching stars together, setting off fireworks together, and pictures of people from their guild playing together…
The internet truly was a magical thing, bringing together people from all corners of the world.
The lonely were no longer lonely, the humble no longer humble. Even the smallest, most insignificant lives could bloom.
She remembered what she once said: “I want to become a professional esports player. The esports industry abroad is developing rapidly, but domestically it’s still a blank slate. Playing games is even seen as being unproductive. I know I can’t do much as I am now, but I want to prove to more people that professional esports isn’t just being distracted by playthings. I’m also looking forward to the day when Chinese domestic esports teams can stand on the world’s highest stage.”
Turning to the last page of the album was a group photo taken outside the hospital room. She had held up the phone – people inside and outside the room, some lying down, some standing, people in front crouching down. An Ran tilted her head toward the camera, showing a smile as gentle as the spring breeze.
If only time could freeze in that moment.
Fang Zhiyou’s eyes filled with tears. She took out that photo, tucked it into her left breast pocket, and buttoned it up.
The host began announcing: “Now please welcome the team from the Glory Wilderness server – Kill to Stop Killing.”
The young person wore a brand new red jacket with their team’s logo embroidered on the back. Fang Zhiyou took large strides onto the star-studded stage.
It’s okay, Ranran, the dream you didn’t get to complete, I will inherit it.
After leaving the hospital, Qin Xuan took a taxi straight to Jinzhou Prison, but was told someone was already visiting and she’d have to wait.
Through the half-open door, the woman saw a slightly plump woman sitting in a chair. Behind the glass window opposite sat Lao Bao, wearing gray-black prison clothes with a shaved head.
The two were talking through phones, and Lao Bao even smiled. He had been sentenced to death, to be executed in spring, yet his face showed no fear, defeat, or madness of a dying person… instead, he seemed especially calm.
After shedding all that fierce energy, he started to really look like a refined middle-aged businessman.
Qin Xuan said goodbye to the prison guard: “These are some daily necessities I brought for him, please pass them to him.”
“Alright, we’ll give them to him after inspection,” the guard seemed somewhat puzzled why she was leaving without seeing him.
Qin Xuan just smiled without answering and turned to leave the prison.
She stood by the road smoking while waiting for a car. Jinzhou was drier than Shanghai. The cold air and smoke choked her lungs together, making her cough slightly a couple times.
Turning her face, she saw an old acquaintance. She alertly stepped back, and Zhao Hui didn’t come forward either.
She spoke first: “Why don’t you go in to see him?”
Qin Xuan held the cigarette in her mouth, lit the lighter, the flame flickering, smoke coiling seductively.
“Not interested.”
Her words were always sharp as poison. Zhao Hui didn’t want to court embarrassment [meaning: bring trouble upon oneself], and prepared to leave. But at the last moment, she thought of the money that was punctually transferred to her account every month, and that night of the train accident.
The middle-aged woman turned back: “Than-“
Qin Xuan opened the car door and sat in the back seat: “Driver, go faster, to xxx.”
She casually named a string of locations. Watching the taxi disappear down the road, Zhao Hui shook her head – indeed, she was just courting embarrassment.
But at this point, saying “thank you” wouldn’t change anything, at most it would just make her guilt-ridden soul feel slightly better.
Back when Lao Bao was around, the two women were like water and fire. Now that he was about to go, those resentments seemed to disappear with him.
One can’t help but sigh at how complex and changeable human nature is.
“About this tall, very good-looking, wearing high heels, with a very faint beauty mark near her eyebrow…” Incredibly, she described Qin Xuan’s features so accurately. After Xiang Nanke gestured and communicated with the security guard for a while, the answer she received made her both joyful and bitter.
Qin Xuan had come to the prison, but quickly left.
Modern social connections are so fragile. Two people in the vast sea of humanity, losing a phone number means losing everything.
From then on, constantly meeting yet constantly passing by, finally losing all contact.
When she won the national championship, she wasn’t as excited as she’d imagined. When the host placed the heavy trophy in her arms, Fang Zhiyou felt more like dust settling [meaning: everything is finally settled].
At some moment, she felt that An Ran should have been the one standing here receiving the award.
After the ceremony, she said goodbye to her teammates one by one. Naiba [gaming term: milk father, support player] needed to focus on taking care of his child at home, Lao Fan needed to study hard for his high school entrance exam, and others each had their own paths and lives to follow.
People brought together by the internet would also one day be separated by the internet.
But Fang Zhiyou knew this wasn’t the end, it was more like the beginning of an unknown journey.
She was full of expectations and also ready to say goodbye to the past.
She bought two jin of seasonal fruit downstairs and brought them up. The door opened immediately, and Yu Gui’s smiling face appeared behind it.
“You’re back! Dinner’s ready, go wash your hands and let’s eat.”
“Okay,” she put down the fruit and went to wash her hands as usual.
The faucet made rushing sounds.
“Why did you come back so early today?” she asked.
Yu Gui set out the bowls and chopsticks: “It’s a holiday today, and the boss saw how tired I’ve been lately, so he showed mercy and let me skip the night shift.”
“I see,” she nodded. Yu Gui also fell silent, somehow they’d fallen into the awkward situation of having nothing to say unless they found specific topics.
The games she played were completely foreign to Yu Gui, and Yu Gui’s medical books were like hieroglyphics to her.
They were worlds apart, and even more so with An Ran between them.
But Yu Gui thought, now that An Ran was no longer in this world, she could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Could they return to how things were before?
But what she didn’t know was that no one stands still forever waiting for another person.
Life is like rowing against the current [meaning: if you don’t advance, you’ll fall behind], even if you don’t want to move forward, you’ll be swept along by destiny’s flood.
This was true for both of them.
Yu Gui chose to break the silence: “Um… today Doctor Viktor invited me to be a resident physician at the University of Toronto…”
Fang Zhiyou nodded, her heart aching dully: “That’s good news, you should go.”
Yu Gui froze, feeling inexplicably disappointed: “I refused.”
Fang Zhiyou chewed her food, tasteless: “Why?”
She remembered her bold words to Viktor, but couldn’t possibly say them in front of her. Such a clumsy reason – the old her would have mercilessly exposed it.
“Actually, you just want to stay by my side, right!”
Of course Fang Zhiyou didn’t say this. She put down her chopsticks, bitterness at the corner of her lips: “Xiaogui, I’m going to Korea.”
Yu Gui’s whole body shook, her heart filling with indescribable panic: “Is… is it that esports club you’ve always wanted to join?”
“Yes, their people were at the event today. I signed a three-year contract directly. I’ll be doing closed training while also serving for L Team.”
Yu Gui was genuinely happy for her, but her eyes silently filled with tears: “Congratulations.”
Fang Zhiyou patted her head as usual, the smooth strands of hair slipping through her fingertips. She felt reluctant, but she knew it was time to put a period to this ten-year marathon of love.
After much hesitation, she still spoke: “Xiaogui, let’s separate for a while…”
Yu Gui gripped her chopsticks tightly, not looking up, just staring at the food in her bowl: “I know, being in different countries, we’ll definitely be apart…”
“No, what I mean… you should understand.”
Yu Gui looked up at her, tears falling with a splash: “I don’t understand, and I don’t want to understand…”
“Remember what you said before when I asked you to go back to your hometown and be content as a small-town doctor?”
It was like time flowing backward, only with their roles reversed.
“You said you had a dream to fulfill. It’s the same for me now.”
Yu Gui understood the words she hadn’t spoken – her feelings back then were a true reflection of the present situation.
And Fang Zhiyou now understood how difficult it was to actually say these words: “I was also lost before, after my pilot dream was shattered, I didn’t know what I could do, what I should do.”
“Now I’ve finally found a direction I want to work towards. I want to try and see just how far I can go. Xiaogui, just like how you didn’t want to give up being a doctor, I don’t want to give up on esports. This is the only thing I can do now, and do well.”
Yu Gui believed her reddened eyes and flowing tears weren’t fake, but still couldn’t help feeling resentful: “Then do you remember, you also said your biggest dream was to spend our lives together.”
Fang Zhiyou cried, her gaze softening as she looked into her eyes, speaking word by word: “Of course I remember, and it has never changed.”
“In three years, who knows what will happen. Maybe you’ll find someone new, maybe I’ll find a suitable partner. When that time comes, what should we do?”
“If that person is good enough, I’ll step aside.”
Without thinking, Yu Gui raised her hand. Fang Zhiyou instinctively closed her eyes, but the strike never landed on her face.
Yu Gui was already in tears.
She wanted to hug her, but since she had decided to cut off these bonds herself, she shouldn’t give her any lingering attachments.
Yu Gui was right, she shouldn’t make empty promises.
“I often think, back when you were just starting your residency, or when we first started living together, if I had more money, more ability, would we have ended up like this?”
“Xiaogui, you understand too, us reaching this point actually has nothing to do with An Ran, it’s us… we’re the problem.”
One walked too fast, one walked too slow.
Even without An Ran, the problems between them would have exploded sooner or later.
“I was too busy… I’m sorry…” Yu Gui apologized through tears: “I didn’t take good care of your feelings and self-esteem, and didn’t understand your depressed heart after losing your mother… I’m sorry, I ignored your feelings for too long.”
Yu Gui grabbed her clothes. Never had any of their arguments made her feel so hopeless. She still held onto a thread of hope that she wouldn’t leave her.
“I… I’ll change from now on… I’ll try to come home early… no… I’ll support you… I’ll learn to play games, I can play with you, I’ll try to understand your inner world, I’ll take you home… my parents will be your parents…”
She spoke while choking up, tears falling continuously.
Fang Zhiyou finally slowly embraced her, but no longer held her waist, just placing her hands on her back, like a hug between friends.
“Xiaogui, you’ve grown up, you should understand that sometimes a temporary separation is for a better reunion after a long parting.”
She wiped away her tears: “I look forward to seeing you then, becoming an even better doctor. Work hard, okay?”
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