Hundred-day metamorphosis

Chapter 6 Peeping at Happiness

Night had fallen, and the city’s neon lights clawed at the deep sky.

Zhuang Zi’ang stood at the foot of the old apartment building where his mother, Xu Hui, lived, clutching the carefully chosen strawberry cake. He gazed up at the countless lit windows – none of them for him.

Just as he reached the stairwell, he collided with Xu Hui, who was dragging a suitcase, her movements hurried. Life’s burdens had etched clear lines of fatigue onto her face, worn beyond her forty-odd years.

"Zi’ang, Mom’s got an urgent business trip. Fix yourself something to eat, or... go back to your dad’s." Xu Hui spoke rapidly, her eyes flicking over the cake box in his hands without pausing.

"Mom, just a few minutes... could you stay and have a slice with me?" Zhuang Zi’ang’s voice held a barely perceptible plea.

"No time! You’re eighteen, act like it!" Xu Hui glanced at her watch, her tone brooking no argument. She turned and left, the sharp clack of her heels echoing rapidly down the corridor, fading into the concrete gloom.

Watching his mother’s resolute retreat, the last flicker of light in Zhuang Zi’ang’s eyes died. What would telling her even do? It would only burden this perpetually busy woman with a premature, heart-wrenching despair. She’d still have to navigate this world after dealing with his “aftermath.” And that divorced male colleague... perhaps without him as a burden, his mother might even find some semblance of support and stability in her later years. Eighteen. An adult... Is this sensible enough?

A weak, instinctive craving for paternal affection finally won out. Clutching this last, slender thread of hope, he carried the cake across the vast city, trudging towards the so-called “home.”

The night wind bit deep, making him shiver.

The elevator doors slid open, but the scene before him froze him solid.

The front door stood slightly ajar. Warm light and the cheerful strains of a song spilled out:

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..."

It hit him then: today was his younger brother Zhuang Yuhang’s birthday (by the lunar calendar). In this household, Zhuang Yuhang was the undisputed sun; he, Zhuang Zi’ang, was merely an awkward, orbiting shadow.

Zhuang Yuhang’s childish voice rang out clearly: "Mom! Dad! We have to be happy forever! You have to be with me every year for my birthday!"

A family of three... The definition couldn't be clearer.

Stepmother Qin Shulan’s voice followed: "Husband, should we call Zi’ang? See if he’s coming home?"

Father Zhuang Wenzhao’s reply was dismissive: "Don’t bother. He’s probably at his mother’s. He’ll come back if he wants to."

Through the c***k in the door, Zhuang Zi’ang saw it: a massive birthday cake, lavishly adorned with colorful fruits and chocolate, sitting proudly on the dining table under the warm, yellow light. The three of them sat around it, faces illuminated by pure, unadulterated joy.

That laughter. That warm light. It felt like countless icy needles piercing his heart. He stood there, an unwanted voyeur peering through the keyhole at someone else’s perfect happiness. A profound chill seeped into his bones, making even breathing sting. There truly is no place for me here. Without me... wouldn’t they just be the perfect family of three? My very existence is the thorn, the irreconcilable flaw.

He was about to slip away silently when the door was pulled open by Qin Shulan.

"Zi’ang? You’re back! Why didn’t you come in?" Qin Shulan’s face was a perfect mask of mild surprise.

Like a thief caught red-handed, Zhuang Zi’ang lowered his head and shuffled inside, his voice scraping dryly from his throat: "Dad..."

Zhuang Wenzhao merely offered a noncommittal "Hmm," his gaze sweeping over the strawberry cake in Zhuang Zi’ang’s hand – it looked pitifully thin and cheap by comparison. An almost imperceptible frown creased his brow, his eyes lingering on the box.

"Today is Yuhang’s birthday. Wash your hands and have some cake." Zhuang Wenzhao’s tone was flat, devoid of any discernible emotion.

The air seemed to crystallize instantly. The earlier laughter vanished. Zhuang Zi’ang’s presence was like a chunk of ice dropped into warm water, freezing all traces of warmth.

"You... go ahead. I need to grab something from my room." Zhuang Zi’ang practically fled to his small, perpetually cold bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him before daring to draw a ragged breath. He needed an anchor, even a flimsy prop. With trembling hands, he pulled a dusty bamboo flute from the depths of a drawer – a relic, a prize from some forgotten childhood music competition, its skills long rusted away.

Not long after, a knock sounded. Zhuang Yuhang stood there, holding a large slice of cake, but his eyes held nothing but undisguised rejection as they swept over the strawberry cake Zhuang Zi’ang had placed on his desk.

"Here. Mom and Dad said to give you this." There was no fraternal warmth in his tone. To this spoiled younger brother, Zhuang Zi’ang was merely an unwelcome intruder, tolerated only for his grades.

"Yuhang... thank you. Happy birthday." The words felt like gravel in Zhuang Zi’ang’s throat.

"Actually," Zhuang Yuhang curled his lip, the words blunt and wounding, "you don't have to come back. You don't like it here, and I don't like you here either." This sudden, n***d hostility shattered Zhuang Zi’ang’s last, humble sliver of hope.

"I'm leaving now." Zhuang Zi’ang grabbed the strawberry cake and the cold, uncared-for bamboo flute, almost knocking Zhuang Yuhang aside as he bolted from the room.

Qin Shulan chased him to the front door, feigning concern: "Zi’ang! Where are you going this late?"

Zhuang Zi’ang stopped abruptly, turning to look deep into his father's face – so familiar, yet utterly alien. His voice was a hoarse, desperate gamble: "Dad. It's... more convenient for my studies if I live with Mom. Three months from now... please, will you come pick me up? Bring me home?" He stared into his father’s eyes, hanging on the answer as if it were a verdict on his life.

Zhuang Wenzhao was visibly taken aback, clearly unprepared for this request, especially the inexplicable weight behind "three months from now." He mumbled reflexively, "We'll... talk about it later..."

"It doesn't matter if you don't come." The final spark in Zhuang Zi’ang’s eyes guttered and died. He forced a smile that was uglier than tears, turned, and fled the apartment.

The moment the elevator doors sealed him in, the scalding pressure behind his eyes finally broke. Hot tears blurred his vision.

Why? Why is everything Yuhang takes for granted so impossibly out of my reach?

Stepping out of the building, a tidal wave of grief and despair crashed over him, an invisible giant hand closing around his throat. The illness lying dormant within him roared to life, ignited by the intensity of his anguish.

Warm liquid gushed from his nostrils again, without warning. Drops splattered onto the cold, grey floor tiles, blooming into shockingly vivid crimson stains. The color was unnervingly similar to the dull crimson tassel hanging from the end of his bamboo flute.

He frantically pressed a tissue to his nose, but the blood seemed to mock his fate, seeping through stubbornly.

Three months...

He suddenly remembered sitting on the steps with Su Yudie at noon. He’d had a nosebleed then too. The girl’s soft hand had gently supported the back of his head, her fingertips radiating an inexplicable warmth, and the bleeding had stopped soon after.

Here, now, in this desolate, frozen night, Su Yudie’s bright smile, carrying the scent of sunshine and warm grass, pierced through his confusion with startling clarity. That smile became the only warmth he could cling to in this encroaching, endless dark.