Sorry who are you? Love story between 2 best friends.

The summer sunlight, with a presumptuous demeanor, boldly poured into the room where the curtains had forgotten to be drawn. The dazzling rays even climbed onto the bedside, enclosing the person lying half on the bed in a pale and weak appearance, long accustomed to lack of exercise and darkness, revealing his condition without any concealment. The sunlight on the skin brought a tingling sensation, and the excessive brightness made it almost impossible to open the eyes. Turning away from the window, avoiding the sunlight, half of his face plunged back into the darkness. A slender figure walked in from the door, carrying a tray. Without saying a word, upon seeing the movements of the person on the bed, the figure placed the tray on the side cabinet, walked silently on the carpet towards the French window, aiming for the curtains— "Don't close it," the person on the bed spoke up in a faint voice, barely audible but successful in stopping the slender hand on the curtain's pull string from making any further movement. "The sunlight is too strong; you can't endure it," the man standing by the French window said. The man had a captivating voice, deep and magnetic, irresistibly drawing attention. With such a voice, he could easily become the focus of attention for women without relying on his appearance. "Let me bask for a while. It's been a long time since I've seen sunlight, and there might not be many opportunities in the future." "Nonsense!" A displeased reprimand as the curtain was slightly pulled aside, preventing the sunlight from reaching the patient's face on the bed. However, the bright daylight still occupied most of the room, satisfying the man's longing for sunlight. The man on the bed raised his right hand to the sunlight, looking at his once strong and powerful hand. After more than three years of suffering from illness, it had lost its luster, vitality, and flesh, now just a loose layer of skin clinging to the bones, accompanied by a pale and dismal appearance. "Like chicken feet?" The man on the bed smiled as he asked the man on the bedside table who was organizing his medication. "But without the seasoning, the taste must be terrible." "If you want to eat chicken feet, get well soon, and I'll take you all over Taiwan to try famous chicken feet. I might even help you open a chicken farm dedicated to providing you with chicken feet," the man held the weak and emaciated hand, gently placing it back on the bed, patting it lightly to save his energy. Even speaking seemed to be a struggle for him; laughing required taking a few breaths. It was better for him to stay calm. "Look at what this illness has done to you. Even the most taciturn and least promising young master has learned to c***k jokes," the man on the bed laughed wholeheartedly. "Take your medicine, then have some porridge," the man, jokingly referred to as the young master, ignored him and focused on his task. After giving him the medication, he began to feed him the porridge, spoon by spoon, as if caring for an infant with meticulous attention. "If you can still taste, I'll go apprentice to a chef and prepare a feast for you," the man didn't deny that the plain and tasteless porridge was cooked by him. He didn't deny it might be unappetizing either. Despite containing many rare and top-quality ingredients for nourishment, the porridge tasted bitter due to the illness affecting the patient's ability to absorb nutrients. Everything became futile once the digestive system lost its functionality. All he could do now was exert all his efforts just to make his friend feel at ease. After finishing a small bowl of porridge, the man on the bed was already covered in cold sweat, breathing slightly. His tightly pursed lips turned pale, as if he was trying hard to suppress the urge to vomit, preventing his stomach from rebelling. He didn't move, waiting for the nauseous feeling to pass. All the young master could do was hold a towel and gently wipe away the sweat. After about ten minutes, the man on the bed finally stopped sweating, and his pale lips regained a faint color. "No vomiting this time, lucky." "Still uncomfortable?" "Not anymore." Of course, his body was always uncomfortable, but the degree varied. The so-called comfort meant being able to endure it without showing it to others. In fact, both of them understood this. "Fenghe, put on this bracelet and don't take it off." The young master lifted the patient's right hand, sliding a Buddhist prayer bead bracelet from his own wrist onto Fenghe's hand. "When did you start believing in religion? Willingly wearing a Buddhist prayer bead bracelet?" Fenghe raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I'm willing to believe in anything that I once considered absurd and unscientific as long as it's useful," the bracelet was put on, covering Fenghe's hand, and even the young master's right hand covered it. He gently enveloped Fenghe's bony hand, afraid that even the slightest pressure might cause pain. "Useful? Are you talking about my recovery?" Fenghe couldn't help but smile.