Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 26

The chairs outside the ward were scattered with a few people squatting in silence.
Li Chu sat on the other side, away from the small crowd, rubbing her hands and breathing warmth onto her fingers.

She couldn’t keep vigil inside the ward and could only sit in the cold draft outside the door. Even her drowsiness was driven away by the chill carried on the damp air.

Beside her, a woman held a medical record in her hand, dabbing at her tears. Though she tried hard to keep quiet, her muffled sobs still reached everyone present. Their expressions all turned heavy with grief.

Li Chu was no exception. In her heart, the image of that gentle, invincible gold-medal lawyer Hu Muwan no longer existed.

What remained was only an old woman lying in bed, clinging to life through a ventilator.

The sound of footsteps broke the suffocating stillness of the corridor. One by one, the lights along the hallway flicked on, and a figure appeared from the corner.

Li Chu wasn’t in the mood to pay attention to anyone, but when that person came closer and she saw her face clearly, she called out in surprise:

“Aunt Lu.”

The elderly woman who had arrived late smiled and touched her head.
“Xiao Chu, why aren’t you home? It’s so late.”

Her hand was warm, brimming with life, just like her eyes—bearing no trace of age. Compared to the frailty inside the ward, this warmth made Li Chu’s tears spill out again.

“Aunt Lu, is Dean Hu…”

The word death was too heavy, too sharp. Li Chu didn’t dare say it aloud.

“Don’t be sad.” The old lady sat beside her with a gentle smile. “You must learn to accept everyone’s departure. That is fate.”

Li Chu nodded, but her tears dripped hard into the hollow of her palm.

She knew Aunt Lu’s story—her lover had passed away twenty years ago. Perhaps only those who had faced death could be so accepting.

The night was not yet fully gone when the elevator at the end of the corridor opened slowly. A tall, slender figure stood there.

Li Chu recognized her almost immediately.

Qin Song’s pink hair and tattoos were her trademarks. Sometimes Li Chu felt these things had become part of her very being—tattoos to cover the past, pink hair to conceal her history.

The elder beside her also looked over. But age had dimmed her eyesight—only when Qin Song drew close did she truly see.

Cold, unruly, defiant—so much like someone from long ago.

Li Chu stood, lowering her voice so as not to disturb the others:
“You’re back?”

She had come up by the same elevator—the old one that had trapped the two of them inside for a whole hour.

Li Chu could never forget how Qin Song had, for the first time, fallen from her proud pedestal inside that elevator, revealing weakness.

“It’s fine.” Qin Song approached, expressionless. She’d changed shoes, so her heels no longer tapped sharply on the floor.

She noticed the elder at Li Chu’s side, glanced briefly, then turned her gaze back.
“Haven’t eaten.”

They had just sat down at a restaurant, not yet ordered, when the hospital call came.

“Oh…” Li Chu was dazed, feeling as though the Qin Song standing before her overlapped with the one from just hours ago—equally unreal.

“I’ll eat after Dean Hu wakes up in the morning,” she said.

Qin Song watched her in silence, at a loss for words.

Anything she said now would unravel her. Choosing to leave her apartment and return here was already proof of losing control.

So instead, she went to stand at the window, lowering her brows and lashes, her body just enough to block the draft blowing in.

“Is this your friend?” Aunt Lu asked.

“Ah, yes… yes.” Li Chu darted a look at Qin Song. Seeing no denial, she sighed with relief. “She’s a friend.”

But calling her a friend felt hollow. What kind of “friends” shared a bed?

“Oh? How old?”

Li Chu blinked, hesitating.
“Tw—twenty-nine?”

The elder chuckled.
“You don’t even know your friend’s age? Still the same muddleheaded child you were.”

“….” Li Chu swallowed dryly. It wasn’t that she didn’t know. She was just afraid of Qin Song realizing she did. This was the ICU corridor—if Qin Song lost control and lashed out, what then?

Thankfully, Qin Song restrained herself. She only lifted her eyes slowly, her voice hollow as she cut in:
“Twenty-nine.”

Both women looked at her, caught by the sudden answer.

“Twenty-nine…” The elder’s aged face tilted upward, gazing at the blinding ceiling light as though seeing through it, recalling something far away.
“Such youthful years. Twenty-nine years ago, she was still here…”

She? Li Chu already knew the answer—it had to be Aunt Lu’s lover.

Aunt Lu had spoken of her before. They had married at thirty—the very year Qin Song was born.

Her lover had been close friends with Dean Hu as well. Li Chu didn’t know why she’d died so young, only that whenever her name was mentioned, sorrow filled Dean Hu’s eyes.

She must have been a wonderful person, Li Chu thought.

“The past doesn’t matter. Memories are eventually washed away by time. Only love remains. Don’t waste your strength grieving the abyss—it isn’t worth it.”

The old, weathered voice carried the weight of countless passing years.

Qin Song stayed silent, only the faint flicker of her lashes betraying wakefulness.

Li Chu, too, said nothing. She couldn’t tell if Aunt Lu was merely lamenting, or deliberately speaking to Qin Song.

The wall clock ticked steadily. One by one, the people waiting outside drifted away. Only the three of them remained, each quiet in their own thoughts.

When dawn lightened into day and the hospital grew noisy again, Qin Song finally raised her head. Her pale neck stretched in clean lines.

“Breakfast?” She slid her hands into her coat pockets, her voice detached.

Li Chu had no appetite, but thinking of the elder’s health, she nodded.
“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

Perhaps irritated by her slowness, Qin Song leaned slightly to the side, half her striking face bathed in sunlight.
“No need.”

So Li Chu sat back down, listening to Aunt Lu say softly:
“Later, don’t look too sorrowful. Otherwise she won’t be at peace.”

“Mm. I know.” Li Chu bent her head, picking at her fingers, unease swelling in her chest.
“Aunt Lu… must we really accept death?”

The elder turned to her.
“What else can you do if you don’t? If you can’t accept it, will it change anything?”

Yes… what could it change?

Dean Hu would surely want her to live well.

But thinking this only made her sadder.
“I can’t bear to lose her…”

“Who can truly bear to lose anyone? I couldn’t bear to lose them either. When Bay Bay left, this world had only me left behind…”

So it was the one who remained who suffered most.

Li Chu clenched her fists, but the tears still came.

By the time Qin Song returned with breakfast, Li Chu was already sobbing uncontrollably, collapsed against the old woman’s shoulder, drowning in grief.

The little bunny in her sticker set, usually so lively and playful, was now just weeping, unable to stop. The sight made Qin Song’s throat tighten.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she wanted to hold her—like she had in bed, or at the computer desk.

The crack in her heart split open wide, shards cutting her painfully.

Qin Song hated this kind of hurt.

So she dangled the breakfast bag in front of Li Chu, her tone sharp and emotionless:
“Crying is the most useless thing. Eat first.”

Even through her tears, Li Chu ate.

She knew she had to hold on—until the very end.

Afterward, nurses and doctors came to check on the patient. The elder rose, and before leaving, cast a long, meaningful look at Qin Song.

“To express it—that’s what true love means.”

She didn’t go inside. Carrying her old umbrella, she walked away.

Morning light spilled in, noise filled the hall. A nurse pushed open the door, calling out:
“Family of Hu Muwan? The patient is awake.”

Li Chu was still mulling Aunt Lu’s words. At the sound, she snapped back.
“Yes, here! Can I go in?”

“You can visit for half an hour. Try not to tire her out.”

She nodded and entered quietly, the door closing softly behind her.

Through the narrow gap, Qin Song’s eyes locked on the room.

If sorrow had a sound, Qin Song thought, it would be the shutting of hospital doors—along with the tears of the happy.

No matter how she fought it, she knew she had already chosen. Her body was one step ahead of her mind, beyond control.

At the apartment, staring at the succulents on the balcony, she’d thought of Qin Zhen, and then of Li Chu’s words: “Are our pains equal now?”

Her heartbeat had stuttered.

She had tried to push it down, but feelings were like balloons underwater—the harder you pressed, the stronger they floated up.

So was the heart, rising and sinking.

After half an hour, Li Chu came out, eyes red from crying, the whites streaked with veins from sleeplessness, looking all the more like a pitiful rabbit.

She looked at Qin Song with tear-damp eyes.
“We can go now. Dean Hu is still very weak—she’ll recover in three days.”

Qin Song turned away, but when she heard the sound of Li Chu sniffling, her gaze wavered back.

The morning sun was gentle, the dust in its golden rays swirling boldly.

Li Chu stood amid it all, her expression so desolate, so lost—like a child who couldn’t find her way home.

And there it was again, that inescapable stab of pain in her chest. Qin Song frowned hard, her voice sharp with impatience:
“Let’s go. Standing here is useless.”

She had driven over, and without a word, she leaned close and buckled Li Chu’s seatbelt for her. The motion was hardly gentle.

But the closeness inevitably brought other images to mind—

The kiss at the crash site. The attic chaos where passion turned the world upside down.

Li Chu had never imagined those pale, slender hands could drive her to such drowning tides of pleasure.

She remembered Qin Song’s body—slender yet pliant, her waist yielding under Li Chu’s hold, pressing down to resist being bound, their lips finding each other in the motion.

Li Chu folded into herself, and it was in this way they advanced.

Part of her wanted, recklessly, to ask Qin Song where she’d learned such… intricate skills.

But clearly that wasn’t a wise question. She kept silent, assuming it was from videos online.

The scenery outside shifted swiftly. Weariness grew heavier, sinking into exhaustion.

Li Chu dared not look at the driver. Leaning against the window, she soon drifted into a deep sleep.

She slept heavily, her head bobbing with the car’s sway, not waking. The seatbelt pressed firmly across her chest, outlining curves too soft, carrying a dangerous allure.

So when she woke, the car had already stopped in a deserted alley. Outside, simple red bricks stacked into a wall, mortarless, with fiery phoenix flowers bursting between the cracks.

Qin Song’s hand rested out the window, holding a cigarette. Her face turned away, as though waiting for Li Chu to wake.

“What’s wrong?” Li Chu rubbed her eyes, her just-awoken voice soft and kittenish.

Qin Song turned back, her seemingly detached, cold eyes dark as midnight. Yet at their center, fire crackled and burned.

Just like the cigarette she flicked away with a snap of her finger, its spark tracing an arc before dying out—restrained silence masking a lurking madness.

The car window behind her rolled up slowly, enclosing the two of them together, shut off from the world.

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