The taxi pulls up to the hospital entrance, and I stumble out, barely managing to pay before racing toward the entrance. My hands are still trembling from the driver's casual revelation—how could he have been here all this time? Not in Beijing, but right here, in the same city?

The automatic doors slide open, and I pause for just a moment to catch my breath, my eyes scanning the lobby. The sterile smell of disinfectant hits me immediately, sharp and unwelcome. This isn't right.邱鼎杰 (Qiu Dingjie) belongs in our messy apartment, surrounded by our things, not in a place like this.

I approach the information desk, my voice cracking as I ask for his name. The receptionist types slowly, and each second feels like an eternity. When she finally gives me a room number on the fifth floor, I'm already running toward the elevators.

The hallway seems to stretch on forever. Each step echoes against the white walls, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, loud and frantic. Room 507. I stop outside, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

What if he doesn't want to see me? What if I'm too late?

I take a deep breath and push the door open. There he is, lying in the hospital bed, smaller than I remember, his face pale against the white sheets. He looks up, and his eyes widen in surprise. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then he offers a weak smile, and my resolve crumbles.

I rush to his bedside and sink to my knees, taking his cold hand in mine. "Why?" I whisper, the word breaking on a sob. "Why didn't you tell me?"