Water Lily

20

The sterile smell of disinfectant in the hospital lingered with an unshakable chill. As Lin Yan carried a thermos into the ward, Su Wan leaned against the headboard flipping through an art album. The burn bandages on her arm were thick and bulky, her face still pale. When she saw him, her eyes lit up instantly—like parched plants greeting rain: "You’re here."

"Yeah, I passed by the hospital and brought you some soup," Lin Yan placed the thermos on the bedside table, deliberately keeping his tone flat, as if this were just a visit between ordinary friends—a pretense he’d created for himself, and an excuse he’d use for Song Xiaoran. "Xiaoran made pigeon soup—it’s nourishing. I brought you a portion."

He didn’t mention that he’d woken up early specifically to ask Song Xiaoran to make the soup, lying that "a colleague from the project team was hospitalized and I wanted to bring them some"; nor did he say that he’d taken three detours to avoid running into acquaintances, just to stay peacefully for half an hour.

Su Wan lifted the thermos lid, and the aroma of pigeon soup wafted out—with red dates and wolfberries, her favorite. "Thank you," she picked up a spoon and sipped slowly, her eyes glistening with moisture. "Shen Ze... only came once. He stayed for ten minutes and left, saying the company was busy."

A faint sting pricked Lin Yan’s heart. He remembered that during his last visit, Su Wan’s mother had secretly told him that Shen Ze had only sent his assistant to deliver medical fees once, never showing up again, and rarely even calling. "He never had me in his heart," Su Wan’s voice choked, her spoon stirring gently in the bowl. "I used to lie to myself that he was just busy. Now I realize—he never cared about me from the start."

Lin Yan said nothing, just picked up a wet towel and wiped the corner of her mouth. He didn’t dare respond, fearing that once he opened his mouth, those deliberately suppressed emotions would surge out. His initial reason for taking care of her was "morality"—after all, she’d been injured in the studio fire, and the studio project was still related to him. But every time he saw her lonely figure and dependent gaze, his resolve to "cut off contact" quietly wavered.

In the days that followed, Lin Yan became a regular visitor to the ward. After work, he’d detour to the hospital, bringing meals made by Song Xiaoran (always claiming they were "shared by colleagues"), organizing her scattered sketches, consulting doctors about her recovery, and even reading articles from art magazines to her when she couldn’t sleep—just like he used to do in the studio.

He deliberately maintained distance: not touching her hand, not staying alone for too long, limiting each visit to less than an hour, keeping his phone on loud mode at all times, fearing he’d miss a message from Song Xiaoran. But these deliberate efforts seemed pitifully weak in the face of Su Wan’s dependence.

Once, Su Wan wanted to drink water but couldn’t exert force due to her burned arm. Lin Yan reached out to hand her the cup, his fingertips accidentally brushing hers. Both froze for a moment. Su Wan’s cheeks blushed slightly; she didn’t pull away, just said softly: "Lin Yan, thank you. I don’t know how I would have gotten through these days without you."

Lin Yan’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly withdrew his hand, pretending to organize the sketches: "You’re welcome. We’re still... friends."

"Friends?" Su Wan smiled, a hint of self-mockery in her eyes. "Would just friends detour to see me every day? Would just friends remember I don’t eat coriander, that I like two red dates in my soup? Lin Yan, you can deceive others, but not yourself."

Lin Yan’s movements froze. He knew Su Wan was right—his care for her had long exceeded the boundaries of "friendship." But he couldn’t admit it—admitting it would be another betrayal of Song Xiaoran; admitting it would mean never returning to that warm home.

"Focus on recovering," he avoided her gaze, his voice flustered. "I should go. Xiaoran is waiting for me at home."

He fled the ward almost in a panic. Behind him came Su Wan’s soft sigh, pricking his heart like a thin needle. When he reached the hospital lobby, he took out his phone and saw a message from Song Xiaoran: "Come home early from work today. I made your favorite braised pork. Le Le says she wants to have an eating contest with you."

Lin Yan’s eyes suddenly reddened. Staring at the smiling emoji in the message, then thinking of Su Wan’s pale face in the ward, guilt and struggle threatened to drown him. He indulged in Song Xiaoran’s tenderness and trust, while being unable to let go of his concern and care for Su Wan; he spoke of "cutting off contact," yet secretly continued this hidden relationship.

Once, Song Xiaoran offered to go with him to "visit the colleague." Lin Yan’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He quickly made an excuse: "No need. That colleague is quite introverted and doesn’t like meeting strangers. I’ll go alone." Song Xiaoran didn’t suspect a thing, just smiled and said: "Then pass on my wishes for a speedy recovery."

He brought the fruit basket Song Xiaoran had prepared to the hospital. When Su Wan saw it, she asked softly: "Did Ms. Song prepare this?"

"Yeah, she heard I was visiting a friend and made it specially," Lin Yan didn’t dare meet her eyes.

Su Wan picked up an apple, her fingertips tracing the peel: "Ms. Song is a good woman—gentle and kind. Lin Yan, you must treat her well." Her voice was soft, but with a faint, undetectable sadness.

Lin Yan’s heart was a jumble of emotions. He knew Su Wan’s blessings were sincere, but they only made him feel more guilty. He’d thought about not coming to the hospital at all, but every time he imagined Su Wan lying alone in the ward, unattended and unspoken to, his concern overcame his reason.

Shen Ze finally visited once when Su Wan was about to be discharged, carrying a luxury gift box. He placed it on the bedside table: "The doctor said you’re recovering well. I asked my assistant to buy you some supplements." His tone was flat, as if completing a task. He didn’t even sit down for a sip of water before saying "I have company matters" and turning to leave.

Su Wan stared at the gift box, then suddenly smiled—a bitter, desolate smile: "Look, that’s my husband. To him, I’m not even as important as a project, as a contract."

Lin Yan sat beside the bed, watching the despair in her eyes. A sudden impulse surged within him—he wanted to tell her "I’ll always be with you," wanted to say "Let’s not cut off contact anymore." But as soon as the thought arose, it was crushed by the image of Song Xiaoran’s smile and Le Le’s voice.

"It will get better," he could only say, his voice dry. "After you’re discharged, we can renovate the studio, continue your art exhibition. Everything will get back on track."

Su Wan nodded, saying nothing. She just picked up a paintbrush and drew a parasol leaf in the sketchbook beside her bed—its edges marked with faint scars.

Lin Yan stared at that parasol leaf, a stark realization hitting him: the bond between him and Su Wan was just like this scarred leaf. Even after cutting off contact, even with deliberate distance, those deep-seated concerns and obsessions could never be erased. And his deception of Song Xiaoran, his betrayal of this family, was like an unhealable wound—forever lingering in his heart, a reminder of this hidden, struggling past.

On the day Su Wan was discharged, Lin Yan went to help her pack her things. Watching her walk slowly out of the hospital, sunlight casting a golden glow over her, she turned to him, a hint of relief in her eyes: "Thank you for taking care of me these days. Lin Yan, let’s... really cut this off. I don’t want to put you in a difficult position anymore, and I don’t want to deceive myself either."

Lin Yan’s heart felt as if it were being squeezed, the pain making it hard to breathe. He wanted to nod, to say "okay," but the words stuck in his throat. He knew this was probably the best outcome, yet a small part of his heart ached faintly—that care hidden in the hospital ward, that inseparable concern, had ultimately become another unspeakable regret in his life.