Chapter 43 – I’ll come see you

Translator: Abo Dammen

Fu Nan’an had flustered Chi Zhao with just a few words. He said he didn’t mind what Mike had said, but Chi Zhao still did. After hanging up, Chi Zhao’s cheeks were still warm. Even after washing up and getting into bed, his mind kept circling back to it, and he tossed and turned for a long time without falling asleep.

Mike’s words still swirled in his ears. Chi Zhao recalled the incidents from his internship year, Auntie Zhao’s initial distrust, the unconscious hesitation in the Vice Dean’s speech, Jiang Mingyuan’s helpless yet matter-of-fact statement, “Your eyes are the reason.”

Although all those events had found good resolutions through human effort, the mere fact of his blindness had subjected Fu Nan’an to far too much doubt.

“Not asleep yet?”

His new roommate was a typical tech guy. Their relationship wasn’t close, but it wasn’t distant either. He had no other peculiar habits, just an extremely regular sleep schedule. He’d be in bed by 10 PM sharp, without fail.

This night, the roommate had woken up to use the bathroom and saw the light still on in Chi Zhao’s room. Still groggy, he asked, and Chi Zhao replied, “Going to sleep now!” He turned off the light, but still felt no drowsiness.

The darkness amplified his senses. It took a while for Chi Zhao’s eyes to adjust and barely see again. With so little light entering, everything before him was murky and blurred. He strained to open his eyes wide, but all he could see were hazy, indistinct shadows.

—Was this what it was like before Fu Nan’an’s eyes?

Chi Zhao got up and walked a couple of steps in the dark, trying to experience Fu Nan’an’s reality. He stretched his arms out to keep his balance, but his hip suddenly knocked hard against the corner of the desk.

A dull thud echoed. A sore, aching pain spread through his skin. His heart also felt a sour ache, as if steeped in the bitter tartness of lemon water.

He didn’t dare speak of uncertain things, afraid of making promises he couldn’t keep. But deep down, he had always wanted to cure Fu Nan’an’s eyes, to let him see again.

Of course, Chi Zhao’s thoughts weren’t mere fantasy. He wouldn’t pursue something completely impossible. Medicine is inherently a discipline struggling against life itself. The continuous developments in ophthalmology in recent years gave Chi Zhao hope. Where there was hope, he would strive relentlessly.

He had chosen medicine in the first place driven by passion. Now, with the goal of “wanting Professor Fu to see” weighing on him, Chi Zhao exerted 120% effort. The project he had chosen to work with was related to Fu Nan’an’s eye condition.

The process of working towards a common goal with like-minded friends was joyful. But a  problem that had stumped countless doctors for so many years couldn’t be solved overnight. Even standing on the shoulders of giants, their steps were still staggering and cautious. After repeated cycles of hope and failure, the project hit a deadlock. Chi Zhao couldn’t help but feel weary, anxious, and frustrated.

“What’s wrong? Why is your voice so hoarse?”

During their regular evening call, Fu Nan’an detected the abnormality in Chi Zhao’s voice with keen sensitivity.

“It’s nothing,” Chi Zhao said, not wanting to worry Fu Nan’an, maintaining a smile. “I’m fine, Professor.”

Chi Zhao was reluctant to show his negative emotions to Fu Nan’an. Being long-distance was hard enough as it was, they had only this little time to talk each day. Chi Zhao felt even smiling wasn’t sufficient. But Fu Nan’an’s perception was too sharp. He guessed, “Is the project not going smoothly?”

He said, “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

Fu Nan’an’s tone was gentle, yet his eyes remained a sheet of gray. They were on a video call. His eyelids were slightly lowered as he tried to look towards the screen, but his gaze wasn’t fixed on it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but that he couldn’t.

Chi Zhao’s eyes stung again. He forced a brighter smile, saying, “It’s really fine, Professor! I’m not tired!”

When striving diligently towards a dream, one often doesn’t feel the fatigue. But the body eventually grows weary, and passion alone isn’t enough to sustain you.

October was the local rainy season. Fu Nan’an had reminded Chi Zhao several times to take care of his health, but Chi Zhao still caught a cold. It started one day when he didn’t bring an umbrella on his way back to the dorm. Initially just a minor illness, Chi Zhao didn’t pay it much mind, and it dragged on, getting worse.

The aggressive virus gave Chi Zhao a high fever for several days in a row. His voice became terribly hoarse, and he spoke with little strength. He didn’t want Fu Nan’an to worry, so he still smiled during their calls. “I’m fine, Professor. Don’t feel bad for me.”

How could he not feel bad? Chi Zhao’s raspy voice felt like gravel scraping against Fu Nan’an’s heart. Seeing the usually lively young man so ill twisted Fu Nan’an’s heart painfully. Moreover, he knew that Chi Zhao’s intense efforts were largely because of him. Chi Zhao had never said it, but Fu Nan’an knew.

“I’ll come see you, alright?” Fu Nan’an said softly. He touched the screen with his finger, yearning intensely for Chi Zhao to be by his side right then, so he could kiss his forehead and give him some strength.

The New Year’s Day holiday was in a few days. The department had a one-day break, and by adding swapped shifts, Fu Nan’an could scrape together five full days. He had indeed been planning to visit Chi Zhao, but he didn’t expect Chi Zhao to refuse without a second thought: “Better not, Professor. I wouldn’t feel at ease.”

Worried Fu Nan’an might misunderstand, Chi Zhao quickly explained, “No, Professor, that’s not what I mean. It’s mainly that conditions here are different from back home in every way. Even if you came, it would only be for four or five days. I don’t want you to go through all that hassle.”

Chi Zhao was genuinely considering Fu Nan’an’s well-being. No matter what, Fu Nan’an’s blindness was a real factor. Chi Zhao wasn’t comfortable with him traveling far alone.

Firstly, the accessibility infrastructure on the journey might be lacking. Secondly, he feared Fu Nan’an might face discrimination and scorn. Being blind was truly too inconvenient. Around the Fifth Hospital, Fu Nan’an was familiar with his surroundings and unafraid of getting lost or falling. But traveling far required relying on others’ help.

Constantly depending on others is a very frustrating feeling. While people say there are many good souls in society, you inevitably encounter one or two malicious individuals. Your path isn’t entirely in your own hands, it depends on luck.

Therefore, unless absolutely necessary, Chi Zhao didn’t want Fu Nan’an to experience these things. These situations were real, and Chi Zhao couldn’t bear the thought.

Chi Zhao didn’t spell all this out, but Fu Nan’an knew. He knew because he had experienced it, which made him feel all the more powerless. Chi Zhao’s tone was earnest as he said, “Professor, please don’t come. The Spring Festival is in a few days. I’ll request leave and come back then. It’s the same.”

“I understand,” Fu Nan’an could only sigh helplessly and say, “Take good care of yourself.”

Fu Nan’an urged Chi Zhao to take good care of himself.

He could only repeatedly urge Chi Zhao to take good care of himself.

Fu Nan’an wasn’t by Chi Zhao’s side. He set alarms to remind Chi Zhao to take his medicine on time every day, to add layers, and to carry rain gear. But beyond that, there was little he could do. He wanted countless times to fly over and see Chi Zhao, but the trip was truly too inconvenient for him, and he was also afraid of becoming a burden to Chi Zhao.

This feeling of powerlessness was exhausting, and Chi Zhao’s worsening condition was even more distressing. A week passed in a flash, and instead of improving, Chi Zhao’s illness grew more severe. Chi Zhao had always been very healthy, but this sickness was particularly fierce. Perhaps it was also payback for pushing himself too hard recently that Chi Zhao collapsed.

A cold had triggered myocarditis.¹Chi Zhao fainted directly in the laboratory.

Actually, his body had shown warning signs a few days before the acute attack, but Chi Zhao hadn’t mentioned it or taken it too seriously. Perhaps being a doctor made him overconfident about his own health, or perhaps his mind was still fully occupied with the project. He had experienced chest tightness and shortness of breath for several consecutive days but dismissed it as part of a common cold.

The second before he fainted, Chi Zhao was on the phone with Fu Nan’an. He had just finished a day of experiments and hadn’t even taken off his white lab coat yet. His voice was thick with nasal congestion, but he was still smiling as he spoke to Fu Nan’an. The next second, he suddenly fell silent.

Followed by a dull thud.

—”Chi Zhao?”

Fu Nan’an called out urgently, but received no response.

—”Chi Zhao!”

Fu Nan’an’s heart instantly clenched. He frantically pressed his phone, desperate to see what was happening on the other end. He strained so hard his eye sockets ached, but his vision remained a foggy blur. He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t do anything at all.

He wanted to call the emergency number, but domestic numbers couldn’t connect that far. He tried contacting Chi Zhao’s supervisor, but the line was constantly busy.

Finally, Fu Nan’an could only choose the most primitive and clumsy method. He left a message for Chi Zhao’s supervisor, then booked the earliest possible flight there. His fingers trembled uncontrollably. It took several attempts to press the confirm button.

Hailing a taxi to the airport, boarding the plane with the help of staff, Fu Nan’an staggered along, tapping his white cane, every step difficult.

He was frantic, but he couldn’t move fast. Traveling as a blind person was truly too hard. It wasn’t just the darkness ahead, but also others’ lack of understanding. When Fu Nan’an, guided by airport staff, used the special access channel to board, he clearly heard a passenger behind him say indignantly, “What’s a blind person doing traveling? Isn’t this a waste of social resources?”

Someone else sneered, “Do blind people get special privileges? They can use the special channel?”

Of course, there were also people who came forward to help, and others who whispered amongst themselves. The cacophony of discussion and Fu Nan’an’s own anxiety at that moment blended together, a mixture of a hundred different feelings.

Fu Nan’an opened his mouth to explain, to say that his lover had fainted, that he was going to find his lover. But he could guess what kind of reaction those people would have.

—”What use is a blind person going there? Can you even take care of him?”

Kind-hearted people always exist, but malice also exists forever. This isn’t really about the social environment; even in the most enlightened societies, there will always be people who view others through tinted lenses. Because eyes are truly too important, and not being able to see does bring too much inconvenience.

Countless past experiences flashed through his mind. In the end, Fu Nan’an said nothing, simply sitting in his seat and lightly closing his eyelids.

We often say “to feel what others feel,” but in real life, few can truly achieve this. Misunderstandings and discrimination exist forever. Fu Nan’an couldn’t explain, and even if he tried, it would be futile. He could only strive to do his best. He stumbled his way to Chi Zhao’s school, asked countless people for directions on the way, fell twice because he was unfamiliar with the surroundings, his clothes covered in dust. But he finally found it.

It was already afternoon the next day. Late the previous night, Chi Zhao’s supervisor had called back to say Chi Zhao had been taken to the hospital. So Fu Nan’an went directly to the hospital room at the given address. Groping his way forward, he finally reached the door of Chi Zhao’s room, only to be suddenly blocked by someone.

“Are you Chi’s boyfriend?”

It was Mike’s voice.

Fu Nan’an had heard this voice on Chi Zhao’s phone and recognized him immediately. He ignored him and moved to push the door open to enter the room. Mike let out a light嗤 sneer, his tone full of sarcasm: “And you plan to appear before Chi like this?”

Fu Nan’an’s clothes were stained with dust. He had been in too much of a hurry; he had fallen twice, and even now his knees throbbed with pain, clearly skinned. Fu Nan’an couldn’t see his own condition but could feel his own dishevelment. He had truly done his utmost, but he had still arrived too late. It wasn’t just the long distance; his eye condition forced him to repeatedly ask for directions, which also wasted a lot of time.

“You’re too late,” Mike said. “We had Chi settled long ago.”

His voice was disdainful, even mocking: “But even if you had arrived in time, it would be useless. You simply can’t help Chi.

“Chi hit his head on the desk. Can you apply medicine for him?

“Chi needs someone to support him when walking these days. Can you walk without your cane?

“Or, taking a step back, even if you had been right beside Chi when he fainted, without someone else’s help, would you dare to perform first aid on him? Could you, by yourself, assess his specific condition, see if his face was pale, check if his pupils were dilated?”

Mike’s questions came one after another. His words were exceptionally merciless. Without waiting for Fu Nan’an to speak, he had already answered for him.

“You can’t,” he said. “Your eyes can’t see. You can’t do any of these things. And these are just the basics.”

The pain in his knees remained sharp and clear, spreading along his nerves. Fu Nan’an opened his mouth to refute, but had to admit that what Mike said was indeed the truth.

He really couldn’t help Chi Zhao apply medicine, nor could he support Chi Zhao while walking. He couldn’t even see some of Chi Zhao’s basic physical signs, which was why he hadn’t detected Chi Zhao’s abnormality the first time.

—There are warning signs before the acute onset of myocarditis: pale complexion, changes in mental state. Fu Nan’an, because he couldn’t see, had failed to notice these. If a sighted person had been on the phone with Chi Zhao then, they might have noticed his unusual state earlier and ensured a more timely response.

“So I truly cannot understand why Chi chose you,” Mike said. “Chi always says he loves you, that he can’t do without you. He rejected countless others for you, and he works day and night on experiments, wanting to cure your eyes.”

He paused, then questioned Fu Nan’an, word by word: “Then what about you? You can’t even manage these most basic things. Do you really deserve this love?”

Do you deserve it?

Mike’s words were swords and blades. He showed no mercy, and yet every word was true and cutting. Everything he said, Fu Nan’an already knew. He knew, yet he couldn’t refute it. These were indeed things he couldn’t do. No matter how high his achievements, no matter his accomplishments in his professional field, he still couldn’t do these things. He was powerless.

People always have too many things they want to do but are powerless to achieve. This is true even for the most capable individuals. Fu Nan’an’s eyes gave him even more irreparable regrets. Many things that normal people take for granted were impossible tasks for him. This was indeed deeply frustrating.

Fu Nan’an was never afraid of verbal attacks or of someone competing with him. A hundred sentences from Mike couldn’t wound him. But at this moment, as he acutely realized his many “cannots,” as he faced a situation where his lover was in danger and he had been powerless, he still felt a wave of intense helplessness.

Helplessness, or perhaps, insecurity.