Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 31

The next morning, Qin Song was woken up by Li Chu’s phone ringtone. It took her a few seconds to realize she wasn’t in her apartment.

Li Chu was sleeping right next to her, even resting her head on Qin Song’s arm. Her messy hair half-covered her face, and she looked like a child—pure and innocent in her slumber.

The ringtone didn’t wake her up. Qin Song pulled her arm free, pressed her brow, and fished the phone out from under the blanket, tossing it next to Li Chu’s ear.

The girl jolted awake, startled, eyes vacant as she sat up in a daze. It took a long moment before she finally answered the call.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t good news. Dean Hu had gone into the emergency room again. On the other end, Lin Zhiyan’s voice came through, breath uneven:
“You’d better come to the hospital now. Get yourself ready.”

Li Chu’s heart sank, her voice trembling:
“Dean Hu…”

“Mm,” Lin Zhiyan sounded exhausted. “Don’t waste time.”

Qin Song happened to walk out of the bathroom then. She stood in front of the mirror, putting on her ring and earrings. Her hair was neatly combed, flowing smoothly over her shoulders. There was no trace of the disheveled state she’d been in last night.

Once Li Chu finished washing up, Qin Song finally turned her back and asked,
“Where are you going?”

In a rush, Li Chu threw on her clothes, biting a hair tie between her teeth as she tied up her hair.
“The hospital, Dean Hu…”

She cast a helpless, sorrowful glance at Qin Song, then immediately lowered her head, hurriedly pulling on her shoes before standing up.
“She… probably won’t make it.”

Qin Song’s expression didn’t change. Her lashes shadowed her eyes as she stood silently for a moment, then fished the car keys out of her pocket.
“Get in the car.”

Li Chu blinked.
“Ah? What car?”

Qin Song didn’t reply. She just turned, opened the door, and went downstairs.

The air was fresh after the rain. Only when Li Chu sat in the car did she realize what Qin Song meant—she was actually going to drive her to the hospital.

She still remembered how cold and indifferent Qin Song had been the first time Dean Hu was hospitalized. Had the glacier finally started to melt in this selfish, aloof woman?

Li Chu didn’t dare dwell on the thought, because they quickly arrived at the hospital entrance.

Lin Zhiyan was already waiting. She was startled to see Qin Song, then hurried to speak with Li Chu:
“Let’s go up first.”

Li Chu followed her upstairs, while Qin Song stayed behind, smoking.

The ward carried an indescribable smell of death, as though the black cloak of the Grim Reaper hung over the room, suffocating and oppressive.

On the bed lay Dean Hu, frail and near death. The first sight Li Chu caught upon entering was that dying face, and she couldn’t control herself—she rushed straight to the bedside.

“Dean Hu…” she choked out.

Her voice was hoarse and torn.

The old woman’s hand trembled as she struggled to lift it, finally brushing Li Chu’s hair twice before her strength gave out and her hand fell limp.

She had truly grown old. This wasn’t the Dean Hu Li Chu remembered.

The more she compared the present to her memories, the harder it was to swallow the ache of parting.
“I’ll live well. Please don’t worry about me.”

The elder couldn’t speak with the ventilator on. She managed to pull her lips into a faint smile and blinked, as though nodding.

“Do you have anything else you want to leave behind?” Lin Zhiyan asked softly.

Dean Hu’s gaze drifted to the window, distant and unfocused. After a pause, her eyes settled on the bedside cabinet. Lin Zhiyan immediately understood, went over, and pulled open the drawer. Inside were several thick file folders.

She handed them to Li Chu.

Li Chu didn’t open them, just placed them on her lap and instead held the old woman’s hand.
“You don’t need to leave me anything. I can support myself now!”

Perhaps it was a final burst of vitality before the end. Dean Hu’s eyes lit up, shedding the haze of illness, and she carefully studied Li Chu’s face.

From a tiny baby to the graceful young woman before her—she had been like a daughter. But now… they would never share the rest of their lives together.

Li Chu bit down hard on her lip, refusing to cry in front of her. But when Aunt Lu walked in, her dam finally broke. Tears spilled uncontrollably as she shook her head and looked toward the door.

There stood Aunt Lu, unsteady on her feet. Behind her overlapped the cold, aloof profile of Qin Song, still as detached as ever.

And yet, as Qin Song gazed silently into the room, in that moment, they seemed utterly equal. Pain, grief—all pulled tight into a single line, one end tied to each of them.

“Wanwan…” Aunt Lu leaned over the bedside, using the same nickname she had back when they were young friends. All these years, the name had never changed.

“Acheng, I’m going ahead,” whispered the woman on the bed.

And with a faint smile, she passed away.

Her last words had been a farewell.

Li Chu’s body gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, the sound of the ventilator behind her hammering into her mind—was it signaling death, or telling her that from now on she had no family left?

Death was profound and complicated, and her tears couldn’t accept it.

—

At the wake, Li Chu couldn’t eat a single bite. She wavered on her knees before the altar, as fragile as a flower stem ready to snap.

With her so debilitated, Lin Zhiyan took over handling everything, busy to no end.

Dean Hu had helped many people out of hardship in her lifetime and carried strong social standing. So many came to her funeral, all dressed in plain black.

Aunt Lu stood at the front, lighting incense and paper offerings first. The flames leapt high, nearly catching the tassels of the lanterns above.

In that cramped room, smoke and weeping spread together, so thick that Qin Song, standing at the doorway, had to turn away.

When she looked back in, she saw Li Chu’s small figure kneeling motionless before the altar. She looked much the same as she had at Qin Zhen’s funeral.

Carrying out trash, Lin Zhiyan spotted Qin Song at the doorway.
“Go on in—Xiao Chu is inside.”

Qin Song didn’t move. Her slender cigarette rotated idly between her fingers.

“Go talk to her. She hasn’t eaten or drunk all day, and she won’t rest either…” Lin Zhiyan glanced inside. “And she still has to keep vigil tonight.”

Then she strode off to the trash bin. Qin Song kept her eyes on Li Chu’s back, her expression unreadable.

Li Chu, just like at Qin Zhen’s funeral, kowtowed heavily, then staggered to light incense. Her hands shook so badly it took ages to get them slotted in crookedly.

Qin Song remembered—last time, Li Chu’s hands hadn’t shaken. She’d been steady. Not like now, so lost.

If Li Chu had lit incense for Qin Zhen, then Qin Song could at least do something for Dean Hu. She stepped forward, took three sticks of incense, and brushed away the ashes in the burner with her ringed hand. Carefully, she planted the incense upright.

Li Chu startled at the tall figure suddenly behind her, even her breaths tinged with Qin Song’s damp scent.

“Sit.” Qin Song pointed to the low stool. Her eyes lifted, flat and emotionless. “Lin Zhiyan is busy handling things. Your crying won’t help.”

She never knew how to express herself. Words came out sharp and cold.

Even with the best temper, Li Chu couldn’t bear being stabbed like this in her grief.
“But what about last time? Weren’t you sad too?” she shot back.

“I didn’t cry,” Qin Song said ruthlessly. “And I didn’t starve myself.”

She paused, then added as if patching it over:
“Crying solves nothing.”

She might’ve wanted to explain, but she’d already ruined it. Li Chu’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“You really are cold-blooded.”

After saying that, she stubbornly knelt back onto the mat, silent.

Normally, Qin Song would have pulled her up. But this time, before she could act, Lin Zhiyan spoke up to ease things:
“Hey, don’t say that. Everyone has cracks in their emotions. Some people need to cry—everyone’s breaking point is different.”

Qin Song glanced at Li Chu, then sat down on the stool herself.

She stayed there until dawn. Li Chu looked deathly pale, her eyes swollen like walnuts, struggling to stay open in the dim light.

With her long limbs folded awkwardly on the small chair, Qin Song finally stretched, rolling her shoulders before speaking:
“Five o’clock. We’re getting breakfast.”

Her tone carried command. Li Chu could tell.

Just then, Lin Zhiyan came to take over. Afraid she wouldn’t last through the day’s chanting, Li Chu gave a small nod.

As they left the mourning hall, Qin Song suddenly turned, her smile faint.
“I thought you’d hold out longer.”

Li Chu was indeed exhausted, hunger and fatigue wearing her down, her willpower the only thing keeping her upright. She didn’t understand Qin Song’s words.
“…Then I’ll just go back.”

She made to turn around. Qin Song’s brow furrowed subtly, and she caught Li Chu’s wrist bone—just like she did when they were close.

Her irritation made her tone even sharper.
“Don’t you understand plain words? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Then don’t say anything.” Li Chu wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Our joys and sorrows aren’t the same. You’re right about that.”

They stood locked in silence. Outside, the wind howled, tossing Li Chu’s hair. The moonlight poured down, washing her face as bright and flawless as fine jade.

She was strikingly radiant, like a rare gem on display.

Qin Song’s eyes darkened, emotions stirring beneath the fragmented moonlight. She stepped forward, clamped onto Li Chu’s arm, and without a word half-pulled, half-embraced her into the car. As soon as they were inside, she locked the doors.

The seatbelt cut against Li Chu’s neck painfully as she struggled, pushing at Qin Song with both hands and feet.
“Are you crazy?!”

Qin Song froze for a moment, then pressed harder against the seat, her smile carrying menace.
“I thought you already knew.”

Li Chu stared at her in shock.

“I’m sick. Normal people don’t like pain.” Qin Song’s lips quirked upward. “I’ve changed doctors again and again over the years, but it’s useless.”

Moonlight streamed in through the car window, glinting on her eyes and hair, turning her pale pink strands into threads of golden embroidery.

“You think everything can be changed, but it’s all in vain.” Her lips relaxed, her expression falling back into indifference.

“Humans are insignificant. Death is inevitable. You and I are the same.”

Her tone was so lifeless that Li Chu suddenly feared she might slam the accelerator, crash into a guardrail or a streetlamp.

But Qin Song only gripped the steering wheel tightly. She didn’t step on the gas.
“I once thought of ending it all.”

And then? Li Chu waited for her to go on. But Qin Song only lowered her hand, palm open under a shaft of light.

Li Chu’s gaze followed the light, noticing the mole in her palm, and the scars circling her wrist.

They had shared many moments of intimacy, yet this was the first time Li Chu looked directly at those scars.

The ones Zheng Chengfeng left were large—cigarette burns, iron-rod welts. But her wrists were different, marked by thin slashes, barely visible except for their sheer number, crisscrossing densely.

Carefully, Li Chu lifted her eyes to Qin Song’s face.
“And then? Why didn’t you go through with it?”

Qin Song glanced at her, leaning back heavily, her pink hair crumpling against the seat.
“Because I’m sick. My emotions aren’t under control.”

So her nerves tore her both ways—agonized restraint on one side, desperate craving for pain on the other.

Every day, again and again.

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