After My Death, Everyone Repented (Transmigration) - Chapter 32

In the gray world where fate had erased Xie Shaojun’s existence, Chi Yi could rarely recall in full how she and Xie Shaojun had once lived together.

Those memories didn’t shatter her, they only left her feeling increasingly despondent in the emptiness of solitude.

That day, when Xie Shaojun kissed her, work was far from finished.

Chi Yi didn’t stop her. Because when Xie Shaojun leaned in, her eyelashes trembled twice, her breath quickened for three seconds longer than usual. Her hand slipped beneath Chi Yi’s robe, resting on her thigh, before she opened her eyes and asked, “Can I?”

Chi Yi couldn’t resist. She nodded and told her yes.

Xie Shaojun gazed at her with scorching intensity, slowly pressing kisses to the corners of Chi Yi’s lips, the curve of her ear, until Chi Yi’s expression twisted with unbearable longing. Then Xie Shaojun paused, lingering as she murmured, “Jiejie.”

“Jiejie.”

Chi Yi stiffened and told her to stop.

Xie Shaojun asked why.

In that moment, the word carried an inappropriate, almost sinful weight.

Chi Yi didn’t want to answer, so she remained cold.

Then Xie Shaojun’s lashes stilled. Her tempting lips no longer brushed against Chi Yi’s skin. Instead, she leaned close to Chi Yi’s ear and, with deliberate mischief, whispered something strange demanding that Chi Yi return the cherries to her.

Chi Yi was actually angry. She wanted to argue, but when she looked up, Xie Shaojun’s eyes were downcast for some reason.

“Chi Yi,” she said, “when will you ever listen to me?”

Chi Yi saw the disappointment in Xie Shaojun’s eyes. She wanted to tell her she had been listening.

But that day, wisely, she stayed silent. Because Xie Shaojun looked at her with such crushing disappointment.

And those puppy-dog eyes, lowered as if desperately needing a response, Chi Yi felt wretched too. So she mirrored her, half-rising to meet Xie Shaojun, who sat perched on the desk, and kissed her.

The way Xie Shaojun leaned in to kiss her. The way her puppy-dog eyes curved lazily as she called her “Jiejie.” The pitiful look in her eyes when she asked, voice deliberately hushed, if she could pick the cherries.

Even now, recalling those memories, Chi Yi still felt the same fluttering panic, the palpitations, the unease and the overwhelming happiness.

But the person who had given those emotions meaning was gone. Completely, irrevocably, in a way that could never be undone.

Xie Shaojun once told Chi Yi that Chi Yi made her feel powerless. But Xie Shaojun’s departure made Chi Yi feel broken.

Even their once-happy memories now came with a crushing sense of weightlessness, unmoored, leaving only a dull ache.

It didn’t hurt too much. The memories were still sweet. But every time Chi Yi surfaced from that disoriented, panicked haze of happiness, reality would strip her bare, forcing her to face the hollow world.

The car entered a long road lined with broad-leaved vegetation.

The rain no longer pattered lightly. Fat droplets spilled from the dense foliage, thudding heavily against the car roof.

The downpour was too loud, abruptly cutting short Xie Shaojun’s drowsiness.

A line of lyrics drifted into her ears: “The sober ones are the most absurd.”

Xie Shaojun opened her eyes and saw Chi Yi pressed against the cold car window, silent, expressionless, tears streaming emptily down her face.

The loneliness in her eyes seemed to overflow. No light could reach them.

Staring at this version of Chi Yi, Xie Shaojun froze for a moment then, as if nothing had happened, closed her eyes again.

A short while later, strangely enough, Xie Shaojun opened her eyes again.

Chi Yi sat by the car window without making a sound. The driver up front didn’t find it odd either, not even bothering to glance back.

It wasn’t his fault, Chi Yi wasn’t the type to cry. She carried herself with the poised dignity of an ancient empress dowager who ruled from behind the curtains, her high status long since erasing any impression of vulnerability or need for comfort.

In this world, only Xie Shaojun would ever notice the subtle droop of Chi Yi’s eyes or the tight press of her lips and care about what she was feeling.

No one else would ever associate Chi Yi with phrases like “so lonely it makes you want to pity her.”

So on this cool summer night, when Chi Yi’s composure shattered at the sight of a basket of cherries, no one noticed. No one would even believe it.

Xie Shaojun sat in the same car, tormented, with a crying Chi Yi. Fortunately, the tears didn’t last long. The wind dried them on Chi Yi’s cheeks, and she quickly pulled herself together, turning her attention back to work.

Her figure melted into the darkness outside the window, as if her brief moment of weeping had been nothing more than a speck of dust irritating her eyes just an ordinary physiological reaction. Once the tears stopped, Chi Yi returned to normal in an instant.

No matter how many times Xie Shaojun leaned in to look, she remained the same unfeeling, unsympathetic Chi Yi.

The rain grew heavier, blurring the night scenery outside into an indistinct haze.

The view narrowed, and the two of them sat far apart, one on each side of the car. It was as if nothing had changed. except that Xie Shaojun was no longer asleep.

By the time Chi Yi finished reviewing thirty-nine contracts, the car had arrived at the airport.

The flight crew greeted her in the VIP lounge.

“Due to unexpected weather conditions, the flight from North City to South City has been canceled,” the captain announced, standing before Chi Yi like a guilty squirrel, his shoulders slumped as he delivered the bad news.

Xie Shaojun saw Chi Yi frown, but she didn’t say much. There were other staff members present, and one of Chi Yi’s better qualities was that, even when she couldn’t tolerate mistakes, she never publicly tore into anyone without mercy.

She asked the captain if there were any alternative arrangements.

Relieved, the captain quickly arranged tickets for the next available commercial flight, his expression visibly brightening as he rambled on about the airline’s safety record.

“The pilot has thirty years of experience, he’ll make sure every passenger gets home safely.”

Xie Shaojun saw Chi Yi’s lips curve into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in her eyes.

At 10:10 p.m., Chi Yi boarded the return flight.

Unable to secure a first-class ticket, she settled into a business-class seat. Xie Shaojun took the aisle seat beside her. About two minutes later, the rightful occupant of that seat arrived.

Xie Shaojun stood up and scanned the cabin, only to find it completely full, there was nowhere left for her to sit.

The window seat was too cramped and uncomfortable, and considering the turbulence that might occur during the flight, the idea of sitting there was unappealing.

After a long moment of hesitation, Xie Shaojun glanced at Chi Yi and, without a word, sat down on her lap.

Her back pressed against Chi Yi’s soft chest, as if they were embracing from behind.

For some reason, Xie Shaojun’s spine stiffened.

If she’d had a choice, she wouldn’t have been so careless.

In the current situation, Chi Yi had become the only human cushion Xie Shaojun could tolerate and accept for seating service.

At first, Xie Shaojun was a bit stiff when sitting on her, but she soon realized that her soul state didn’t register any weight, nor could she perceive any feedback from Chi Yi beyond a faint warmth.

So, Xie Shaojun relaxed. From another perspective, this was far more comfortable than turning into toilet paper and being flushed down a toilet.

The flight attendant made the final announcement for passengers to turn off their phones. Chi Yi hung up her call and pulled a book from her bag.

She spent most of her 365 days a year on planes, so she didn’t bother looking out at the night sky like others.

Holding the book in both hands, she focused intently on reading.

Curious, Xie Shaojun glanced at it but quickly averted her gaze when she saw the title: Intracranial Tumors (Advanced Edition) / Modern Clinical Diagnosis and Treatment of Tumors Series.

It was a reference book for neurosurgeons and related professionals, filled with dense medical terminology. Xie Shaojun had no idea when Chi Yi had developed aspirations of becoming a doctor.

She must have been reading it for a long time, flipping to the page she had previously marked page 342.

Just two or three more pages, and she would finish the book.

“Are you a doctor too?” The voice came from the middle-aged man in the adjacent seat, his hair slicked back with gel and streaked with gray, his smile warm.

On her second glance, Xie Shaojun recognized him, he was the attending physician who had urged her to seek hospitalization before her death.

However, the doctor didn’t recognize Chi Yi, whom he had only met once. Seemingly eager to discuss the book with a fellow enthusiast, he leaned slightly to glance at Chi Yi’s notes and remarked,

“From a pathological standpoint, advanced-stage cancer leads to metastasis and multi-organ failure, making complete recovery rare. But if patients actively undergo chemotherapy, their lifespan can be extended by one to three years.”

He then asked Chi Yi, “Which hospital do you work at?”

“I’m not a doctor,” Chi Yi replied, lifting her gaze. When she saw the doctor’s face clearly, she paused and asked, “Have we met somewhere before?”

Chi Yi didn’t have a photographic memory, but because Xie Shaojun had been present that day in the elevator, she could recall every person and detail, including this doctor.

The doctor looked at her blankly and said they hadn’t met.

Then, with a gentle smile, he added, “Perhaps I’ve encountered many patients and their families. Do you have a relative who was a patient in the Neurosurgery Department at Nan Cheng Central Hospital?”

Chi Yi closed the book, turned fully toward him, and sat facing him directly. Slowly, quietly, she met his eyes.

Xie Shaojun heard Chi Yi ask, “I’m Xie Shaojun’s partner. Do you remember her?”

The warmth in the doctor’s eyes vanished. He stared at Chi Yi, silent.

Ignoring his sudden shift in demeanor, Chi Yi continued, “On September 26, 2023, at 1 PM, we met in the east elevator of the West Inpatient Building at Central Hospital.”

Crow’s feet lined the doctor’s eyes, and when he lifted his head, a vertical, teardrop-shaped crease appeared likely from years of witnessing life and death, a reflex when encountering family members like Chi Yi.

But towards Chi Yi, he showed none of the initial gentleness.

He clearly didn’t care for her, offering no condolences and maintaining a distant silence.

Chi Yi was skilled in negotiation, knowing exactly what words could move a doctor.

Without being overly deliberate, she used statements rather than questions, recounting in full the events of that brief one-minute encounter between them that day.

She didn’t embellish with excessive adjectives or subjective descriptions, simply narrating everything she had seen in a straightforward manner.

The elevator was a Siemens, silver-gray in color. It stopped on the third floor. The doctor wore a white coat over a Versace shirt, his leather shoes slightly dirty, speckled with mud…

The scene was described with such vivid realism that it instantly pulled one back into the memory of that day.

Chi Yi said that at the tenth second, the doctor had looked at her as if wanting to say something but hesitating. Then, at the thirty-sixth second, he told Xie Shaojun to come back for a follow-up.

Later, when the elevator stopped on the fifth floor and a disabled girl entered, Xie Shaojun took out candy for her. The doctor, standing behind her, had smiled as well.

Every word Chi Yi spoke was a simple statement, yet each detail seemed to have replayed countless times in her mind.

So much so that she could recount even the color of the floor tiles with precision.

Finally, Chi Yi told the doctor, “I looked for you, but a colleague later informed me that you’d gone to Xinjiang for medical aid these past two years.”

Her tone was sincere, her gaze focused, her demeanor poised yet gentle, her voice steady and reliable. enough to make the doctor reconsider his initial impression that she might be the kind of partner who would neglect a loved one with cancer.

“What’s the point of telling me all this now?”

Chi Yi ordered a coffee for the doctor. As he took it, he couldn’t help but shoot her a reproachful glance.

Meeting his eyes, Chi Yi remained silent.

After a long pause, she finally spoke with difficulty. Xie Shaojun heard her whisper, “I’m sorry… Could you tell me about her?”

“During the check-up, I actually saw her. The results weren’t good even then. That day in my office, she wasn’t wearing heavy makeup, nor did she carry any airs. At first glance, I didn’t even recognize her. But then she crossed her legs, leaned against the desk, and yawned and I thought, if my daughter were like her, she’d be kind of adorable.”

The doctor paused, the faint smile in his eyes vanishing inexplicably. He said to Chi Yi, “You two are strange, you know? With such a serious condition, she came to the hospital alone for follow-ups. no one accompanied her. I told her to contact her family, and she dialed the number right in front of me. But the person on the other end said they were in a meeting.”

Xie Shaojun heard Chi Yi take a sharp, shuddering breath. She no longer looked at the doctor, instead gulping down the coffee from her paper cup in one go. Xie Shaojun leaned in so close it was as if she could see something heavy and dark in Chi Yi’s eyes, threatening to spill into the coffee.

But just as she tried to get a clearer look, Chi Yi feigned composure, her voice barely audible as she asked the doctor, “What happened after that?”

“After receiving such a call, she didn’t complain at all. It made me think she must have grown up in a very happy family. Her smile was radiant, the kind that could heal others. She comforted me, saying it was okay, that she would live as long as she could. But if she really couldn’t go on, after occupying someone else’s identity for so long, she felt she had to make amends. So she asked me about the procedures for donating her organs.”

The doctor paused here, casting a sorrowful glance at Chi Yi, who sat with her shoulders slumped, her expression hidden. The coffee cup in her hand was clenched so tightly it had deformed, the foam spilling over the rim and onto her fingers.

The doctor handed her a tissue. Chi Yi took it, murmured a quiet “thank you,” but didn’t look up.

“Are you okay?” the doctor asked.

“I’m fine,” Chi Yi replied. “Please continue.”

“That day at the hospital when I ran into you, she didn’t actually stop me from talking about her condition. I had intended to tell you how serious it was, how she was running around every day despite her state. But then you said you were just her friend. Since you weren’t immediate family, I dropped the idea.”

Xie Shaoyun, sitting on Chi Yi’s lap, felt a slight tremble not from herself, but from Chi Yi’s legs, as if they could no longer bear the weight, slowly tilting downward.

Xie Shaoyun gave Chi Yi a reproachful pat, urging her to sit up straight. But Chi Yi didn’t respond. Xie Shaoyun stood up, crouched down, and tried to adjust Chi Yi’s legs, only to find her hands passing right through them, useless.

The plane shuddered slightly in the air, its wings tilting, causing Chi Yi’s body to lean toward the window. After the turbulence subsided, a long silence followed. As the plane neared landing, the doctor finally spoke again.

“Did you love her?” he asked Chi Yi.

Chi Yi answered like an automated machine, without a moment’s hesitation, as if offended by the question. “I don’t have patience for just anyone,” she said sharply. “Last year, SELV in M Country invited me to give a speech. The year before, the Louvre asked me to be their opening guest. There were so many high-profile opportunities to lecture others, but I never went, because I didn’t have time. I just wanted to talk with her. That was my only wish. Nothing else.”

Her voice grew quieter. At first, she might have sounded proud, recounting those prestigious invitations. But by the end, her words trembled.

The doctor didn’t notice, but Xie Shaoyun heard it.

Chi Yi’s voice, hoarse and strained, as if dragged through a wringer, whispered, “How could I not love her? It’s just that the whole world keeps telling me I never did.”

If you want to cry, scroll to the bottom of the author’s column, there’s a section for that. Go there to cry, because everything lately has been so tear-jerking. I don’t have a comments section anymore. If you need to cry, go there. Waaah waaah.