Hundred-day metamorphosis

Chapter 12 Beyond Saving

"...Don't blame anyone if your heart breaks in love, / Just because our meeting was so beautiful. / Even if you cry all your tears, get hurt, / And your heart turns to ashes, it doesn't matter..."

Su Yudie hummed the tune happily on the way back to school. The song itself was older than she was.

Zhuang Zi’ang found himself buoyed by her lightness, his troubles momentarily forgotten. The tree-lined campus path was fragrant with the scent of peach blossoms.

"Little Butterfly," he ventured after a moment’s hesitation, "give me your number? Easier to find you next time."

Su Yudie, seeming to have expected this, immediately fished a small, sleek phone from her pocket. It glinted faintly blue in the sunlight. They happily exchanged contact info, the awkwardness of the past few days dissolved.

"Text me in the daytime," Su Yudie instructed. "I don't play with my phone at night."

"You only read silly jokes anyway! Why stop at night?" Zhuang Zi’ang teased.

"You dare laugh at me? I'm not like you boys, glued to your games!" Su Yudie feigned outrage, lunging to tug at Zhuang Zi’ang's shirt.

They chased each other down the shaded path, laughter scattering like sunlight through the leaves. Class 9 was on the second floor; they parted at the stairwell corner.

"Bye, Little Butterfly! I'll message you."

"Mmh! Might not see it right away if I'm busy, but I will reply!" Zhuang Zi’ang watched her skip upstairs before heading towards his classroom.

Halfway down the hall, he stopped. On impulse, he turned and hurried back up the stairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of which classroom she entered. Third floor... Fourth... Fifth... No sign of her. Had she vanished that fast? Frustrated, he slapped the banister and trudged back down. Friends, yet she wouldn't reveal her class. Still distrusting him?

The afternoon classes dragged interminably. Most students were drowsy, listless. Zhuang Zi’ang remembered fishing by the river with Little Butterfly yesterday afternoon – how swiftly time had flown. Was this the fabled theory of relativity? With a wry twist?

The final bell rang at six. Mr. Zhang Zhiyuan entered. "Zhuang Zi’ang. With me."

Zhuang Zi’ang quickly packed his bag and followed. Away from the classroom, he asked cautiously, "Mr. Zhang? Where are we going?"

"To the hospital," Zhang Zhiyuan stated firmly. "I need to speak with your doctor in person."

"No need, Dr. Chen is swamped," Zhuang Zi’ang refused instinctively. He dreaded the chlorine-heavy air, the starched white coats. Hospital walls heard more desperate prayers than any temple. Too much life cleaved by death.

Zhang Zhiyuan was resolute. He wouldn't relinquish any sliver of hope, however faint. Even if powerless, he needed to hear the doctor's words. At the parking lot, he started his aging Buick and motioned Zhuang Zi’ang in. Passing the school bus stop, Zhuang Zi’ang craned his neck, searching the crowd for a bobbing peach blossom. Disappointment washed over him – too many people, or Zhang drove too fast. No Little Butterfly.

At Central Hospital, Zhuang Zi’ang led Zhang Zhiyuan to Chen Dexiu's office. Chen adjusted his glasses, his expression grave as he shook Zhang's hand.

"Hello, I'm Zhuang Zi’ang's homeroom teacher. I've come to understand his condition."

"A teacher who takes such initiative is rare," Chen Dexiu said with respect.

"I hear you are also an exceptionally dedicated doctor. Is there truly... no other path?" Zhang Zhiyuan's plea was earnest.

Then followed a discussion dense with medical terminology. Chen Dexiu, rigorous and skilled, distilled the complex prognosis into eight devastating characters: The disease is incurable; the situation is beyond saving.

The last flicker of hope in Zhang Zhiyuan’s eyes guttered and died. A tide of sorrow threatened to engulf him. "He's only eighteen... Why?"

"A girl had the same condition before him," Chen Dexiu sighed heavily. "Younger still."

Throughout this, Zhuang Zi’ang sat quietly, an observer to the conversation dictating his fate. Two days had passed. The initial shock and grief had receded, replaced by a chilling calm. Acceptance. He pictured his classmates aged: gray hair, missing teeth, liver spots, trembling gaits. He wouldn't face that. He, Zhuang Zi’ang, would be forever eighteen.

Leaving the hospital, Zhang Zhiyuan’s mood was leaden. He drove in silence for a long stretch.

"Mr. Zhang," Zhuang Zi’ang said, adopting Su Yudie's breezy tone, "don't look so grim. Be happy." What could be changed? Better to choose joy each day.

"Zhuang Zi’ang..." Zhang's voice was thick with emotion. "Is there... anything you'd like to eat? Or drink?"

"I don't want pity," Zhuang Zi’ang replied flatly.

"No! It's not that!" Zhang Zhiyuan protested quickly.

"Just drop me at the school gate. Go home early, spend time with your family!" Zhuang Zi’ang insisted, feigning nonchalance. Part of him wanted to let Zhang treat him, a tangible gesture of care. But the hotpot lunch sat heavy. Simpler fare tonight.

At the school gate, Zhuang Zi’ang bid Zhang Zhiyuan farewell and walked home alone. Passing a snack stall, he bought a hot dog and egg fried rice. Opening the container at home, he saw the vendor had scrawled "Dog Rice" on the lid for identification. His appetite vanished instantly.

Following doctor's orders, he swallowed a handful of brightly colored pills. What good did they do? Buy him ninety days instead of eighty-nine?

He sprinkled fish food into the bowl for the two red goldfish. Rumors said fish had seven-second memories. To be a fish... to forget sorrow, just swim.

Beside the bowl lay the bamboo flute, its crimson tassel startlingly vivid. It was the sole item he'd brought from his father's house. He'd dabbled as a child, abandoned it for studies. Now, picking it up again, even the simplest "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" came out a hoarse, discordant screech.

Suddenly, a melody surfaced in his mind – the strange, beautiful tune he'd heard when he first met Su Yudie. La Suo Suo Xi Duo Xi La, Su La Xi Xi Xi Xi La Xi La Suo... He tried several times to replicate it on the flute. The result was a jarring cacophony. Defeated, he set it down.

Night had fallen. Any more noise, and the neighbors would surely complain.