Chapter 2: Staying Strong

“Achoo!”
Pei Zeyang, who had just left the hospital, sneezed. The friend beside him heard and glanced over, gloating. “What—you catching a cold?”
“No.” Pei Zeyang’s expression was none too good. His sharp brow ridge lowered; his thin lips pressed together. Impatience filled those unruly eyes. “Probably someone’s talking shit about me behind my back.”
His friend: “Oh, then it’s definitely your parents.”
Pei Zeyang: “.”
Hearing that, Pei Zeyang’s already ugly mood turned uglier still.
The last thing he wanted to hear right now was the word parents.
Not long ago, his parents had heartlessly thrown him out of the house.
Half a month back, Pei Zeyang had gone street racing on a mountain road with a few rich kids and things had gone wrong.
He broke a leg and was hauled to the hospital by ambulance.
The moment he came out of surgery, his parents were waiting outside to tear into him and give him a brutal beating.
Leg broken, surgery just finished—and two slaps across his face with a room full of medical staff watching. Pei Zeyang flared up in anger and talked back. His father announced on the spot that they were cutting ties. Live or die from now on, it had nothing to do with the family. Better if he died out there—they could pretend they’d never had him.
After that, his parents never showed up again. Pei Zeyang only got a call from the property manager: his mother had barred him from living in her house and had everything he owned packed up and thrown out.
The luggage was being held at the management office for now. They asked when he’d have time to pick it up.
Just like that, Pei Zeyang was kicked out. Credit cards and all the rest were frozen too.
The young master was furious—and stubborn. He had never bowed his head to anyone in his life.
Cut ties? Cut ties. Who was begging them?
Getting thrown out of the house meant nothing to him.
…
Pei Zeyang was only in a bad mood. He didn’t regret a thing.
After they left the hospital, he and his friend stood by the road chatting. The young master leaned against the wall on crutches, his leg still in a heavy cast—he looked a mess, but it didn’t stop him from drawing stares the moment he stood there: tall, long-legged, built like a model.
Rowdy and hard to control as he was, he was genuinely good-looking—one meter ninety, broad-shouldered and straight-backed. Under a head of striking blond hair, his features were cold and sharp, fierce and defiant. The bold tattoo on his neck made the line of his profile even more cutting—cool and handsome.
If you ignored the thick plaster on his leg, Pei Zeyang was the kind of handsome that hit you in the face.
“So what’s the plan now?” his friend asked.
Pei Zeyang: “Get my luggage back first.”
“Okay, after that? Live at school?” He figured a rich kid like Pei Zeyang, cards frozen, would be like a beast with its throat caught—no moves left.
He thought a moment. “I’ve got an empty place, actually.”
Pei Zeyang had a bad temper, but he was loyal. So when he fell on hard times, his friend was willing to help.
“It’s not big—two bedrooms, a living room. Nothing like the mansions you’re used to, but it’s a roof. Definitely better than a four-man dorm.”
“Fine.” Pei Zeyang wasn’t picky now. “Thanks.”
“Huh.” The other raised a brow. “Rare to hear ‘thanks’ out of you. All right—I called a car. Let’s go. Looks like rain’s coming. You’ve got plaster on that leg. Can’t have you getting it wet.”
As they talked, a light rain began to fall. Dark clouds swallowed the sky—the kind that meant a storm was on its way.
Pei Zeyang grunted and got in the car on his crutches.
—
That sneeze had come out of nowhere, fierce enough that Wen Mo’s eyes watered. Sniffling, he went to the living room, tore off a tissue, and wiped his face.
It did feel a bit cold. Time to add layers.
Wen Mo felt his way along the wall to the second bedroom to pull out his jacket and warmer clothes.
When his parents were still alive, his mother had loved dressing him up and telling him what he was wearing today, how he looked.
His mother had treated it as a little hobby. Wen Mo had loved listening to her, so he had an enormous wardrobe—so many clothes it took a whole room. The second bedroom had more or less become his walk-in closet.
When he moved in, a relative had told him which closet held which season’s clothes—from the door, to the left, the third cabinet…
Wen Mo counted over, opened it, and felt through what hung inside. He found two thicker hoodies and a jacket, carried them back to the master bedroom, then folded the summer pieces one by one and put them back in the summer closet.
Life alone was still new to him, but Wen Mo was methodical. The apartment stayed neat and clean.
After he put on his jacket, he went to the washing machine, took out yesterday’s laundry, and hung it on the balcony to dry.
With that done, it was almost time to make lunch.
Wen Mo found a half-opened bag of dumplings in the freezer and took a potato from what He Yi had just brought.
Lunch would be dumplings and shredded potato.
Wen Mo didn’t really know how to cook. His mother had never taught him.
When the three of them lived together, his parents always felt he was still young—they would be with him a long time yet. No need to learn these things too early.
But accidents come without warning. The little treasure they had held in their palms now had to learn, slowly, on his own.
It didn’t go smoothly. Chopping, lighting the stove, stir-frying—all of it was terribly hard for him.
Cooking was a life skill, though. He couldn’t live on delivery and instant noodles forever. He had to learn, at least a little.
Today he cut his finger again while chopping.
Pain flared. He hissed, rinsed under cold water at once, went back to the living room, found a bandage, and taped his finger. The motions were smooth, as if he had done it countless times.
Life alone was full of small setbacks and surprises. Fortunately Wen Mo kept his spirits up. He dealt with the cut and went back to chopping and cooking, and at noon he ate lunch on time.
He wasn’t skilled, but he could mostly feed himself three meals a day. When he wanted something better, he ordered delivery.
He was trying, as his parents would have wanted, to live well even without them.
After lunch he cleaned the kitchen and dining area, then started feeling his way around the apartment again.
He already knew the layout well enough; bumps and falls were rare now. The reason he kept wandering was that since last week he had been looking for one thing.
Wen Mo had a long stuffed toy his mother had made for him—a fifth-birthday present, his comfort object, his abebe.
When he moved, he had put it carefully in his suitcase. Now he couldn’t find it anywhere.
Maybe it was still in the suitcase and he hadn’t taken it out—but he didn’t know where the suitcase was either.
Since he remembered the toy last week, he had searched without a clue. He had meant to ask He Yi to help find the suitcase when she came today, but he forgot…
It was awkward to call her back now. Wen Mo could only keep searching on his own.
He went through the whole apartment again with no luck and sighed… He would have to leave it for He Yi next week.
He was tired now and needed a nap. The suitcase could wait.
Wen Mo went back to the sofa, pulled a small blanket over himself, and fell asleep quickly.
When he opened his eyes again, wind and rain outside had woken him.
Rain hammered the glass, heavy and fast. Wind shrieked through the gaps in the window frames. Wen Mo jolted upright from a sweet nap, still half asleep, his gaze unfocused as he “looked” toward the sound.
He sat there dazed a while, about to lie back down—then remembered the clothes he had hung on the balcony that morning.
Oh no.
Rain this hard—they would all be soaked.
Sleep vanished in an instant. Wen Mo got up and hurried to the balcony.
The moment he opened the door, the storm hit him in the face.
The balcony wasn’t enclosed. Rain poured in. Hangers clattered in the wind. Clothes had all fallen to the floor. Fat drops struck his face hard enough to make him wince as he felt around in the wind and rain, gathering laundry off the ground.
One, two, three, four, five… He found them all.
He picked them up, kept a hand on the wall, and left the balcony carefully, shutting the door tight behind him.
But the clothes were dirty again—fresh from the machine this morning, and now back in they went, two more added. Wen Mo was soaked from the trip. He stripped the wet clothes, threw them in the washer, and dried himself with a clean towel.
When he was done, he was exhausted. He leaned on the washing machine and sighed. He didn’t even have the strength to make dinner. He crawled into bed and slept again.
Some time in the middle of the night he woke, groggy.
Rain still fell. Thunder rolled and jolted him awake. Rain tapped densely against the windows; Wen Mo felt his heart tremble with it.
He opened his eyes and found his throat burning with pain.
He knew that feeling well.
Every time he caught a cold, his throat went first—then cough, headache, runny nose.
Good thing he woke in time and caught it early. If he took medicine now, it probably wouldn’t get as bad as it could.
He needed medicine.
Wen Mo forced himself up, felt along the wall to the living room, pulled the medicine box from the lower shelf, and found the familiar cold granules.
Cup in hand, he went to the water dispenser.
Hot water at a hundred degrees usually took three or four extra seconds to come out. Today, for some reason, one press and boiling water shot out at once.
Wen Mo couldn’t dodge in time. The hot water hit his finger—right where he had cut himself at noon.
He jerked back from the burn. The cup tipped and fell.
Crack—the cup shattered on the floor.
Lightning flashed outside. Inside, everything was a mess. Wen Mo stood still a long time.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
Take it slow.
He comforted himself. After a while he crouched, felt carefully around, picked up the shards, then wiped the floor with a rag.
When it was clean, he went back to the living room, put a fresh bandage on his finger, and returned to the dispenser with the cold medicine.
This time he was more careful than before. Nothing went wrong.
He filled the cup with hot water, held it in both hands, bowed his head, and little by little drank all the medicine down. Then he made his way back to the bedroom, hand on furniture and wall.
That should do it. He wouldn’t be sick in the morning.
Wen Mo sat on the bed listening to the rain a long while before he lay down.
His pale cheek sank into the soft pillow. His hand reached to the side as if searching for something—and found nothing. Only then did he remember: he still hadn’t found his stuffed toy.
Mm… it’s okay. He could look tomorrow. Tomorrow…
All along, Wen Mo had told himself: no matter how hard things got, don’t fall apart. Pull yourself together. You can live well on your own.
His parents wouldn’t want to see him sad every day, letting life turn to chaos. They wouldn’t want to see him knocked down by setbacks.
He had to stay strong.
Stay strong…
Mm.
Without his comfort toy in his arms, Wen Mo suddenly felt how wronged he was. A sob escaped before he could stop it.
The burned finger throbbed. He curled up, face buried in the pillow, crying quietly.
No one answered his hurt or his tears. When his parents were alive, they always sensed his low moods before he said a word. Now there was no one in this apartment but him.
So lonely. So hard. It hurt so much.
The whimpers and quiet crying were all swallowed by the downpour and the thunder.