Heading for the Plains - Chapter 41

After returning home that night, Ping Yuan caught a cold.

Whether it was a blessing or a curse, the illness manifested itself in a subtle, hidden way. Perhaps due to her chronically low immunity, she didn’t experience the usual dramatic reactions—no “razor-blade” sore throat, no sudden high fever. Instead, she was left with a heavy, leaden fatigue and a persistent, low-grade fever that acted as a constant reminder of her condition.

The damned low fever would act up at night and recede by morning. Every day, Ping Yuan would wake up, look at the 36.8°C (98.2°F) reading on the thermometer, and wonder if she had caught a specific strain of a virus designed by capitalists: one that only affects you after hours but leaves you fit for work.

It left her without a single justifiable excuse to take a leave of absence.

What is this? Did “The Misadventures of Bad Luck Bear” get a reboot just for me?

She dragged herself to work every day with a foggy head, feeling like a donkey destined to spend its life tethered to a grindstone.

Naturally, she saw a doctor. She did the throat swabs and the blood tests, but when she brought the results back to the consultation room, the diagnosis was just a common cold.

The doctor was an elderly woman with a cheerful face, but she started sighing the moment she looked at Ping Yuan. She noted that many young people working late and burning the candle at both ends were coming in with similar symptoms. She stressed that recovery depends on one’s own immunity and suggested a sick leave to rest.

Ping Yuan bowed her head and took the scolding. The doctor tapped at her keyboard, seemingly about to say more, but went silent after scanning Ping Yuan’s past medical history.

After a long pause, the doctor sighed again, skipping the lecture. “Young lady, you know your body better than we do. You must prioritize rest. Do you understand?”

It was the same sentiment as before, but the tone had softened significantly.

Ping Yuan knew the difference. Over the years, she had heard variations of this many times. In hospitals, the children who were scolded the loudest by their parents were usually the ones with the minor illnesses; a quick shot in the arm, a stern “if you don’t wear a coat next time, let the fever take you,” and they’d be fine.

In the face of a truly serious condition, the word “death” becomes a secret one must not disturb; it makes people speak softly and tread lightly.

She had received much of this “gentle care” a mixture of luck and misfortune. Because of that, she never resented a doctor’s fussing.

Though her original intent for the appointment was to ask for an IV drip to speed things up, seeing the doctor’s expression made her realize that asking would only lead to another lecture. A wise person knows when to fold; Ping Yuan decided to endure it.

A faint smile touched her lips. She nodded obediently, like a well-behaved junior. “I understand.”

She was always very good at appearing “compliant” in a hospital. The doctor’s gaze turned maternal as she sighed one last time and sent her off to pay.

The hospital was, as always, a sea of people. Nearby, a child wailed at the sight of a needle; at the next window, two elderly people were bickering over someone cutting the line. Ping Yuan put on her mask and stood quietly in queue, nearly falling asleep.

Beep.

The sound of the QR payment woke her. After a few taps, she was holding a stack of medicine boxes and receipts. She tucked them into her tote bag, and by the time she looked up, her called taxi was waiting at the entrance.

She was going back to the office.

It wasn’t that she enjoyed self-torture; it was just that if this cold was going to linger indefinitely, she couldn’t keep taking leaves and sacrificing her high daily wage. She needed the busy, spinning-top momentum of work to feel secure. She chose to pretend everything was fine.

*****

The twenty-fourth floor had a newly installed circulation system; the air conditioning was powerful and relentless. Ping Yuan walked briskly through the hallway, putting her suit jacket back on. A colleague called out to her, “Sierra, meeting with the client in Room 3 at 4:30. Remember to have the materials ready.”

“That big client,” the colleague gestured, mouthing the words: Difficult.

Ping Yuan nodded and signaled back: Don’t worry.

The essence of consulting is identifying and solving problems for clients, but do clients really need them to make the actual decisions? No. Consulting is mostly about helping decision-makers organize their thoughts. Often, the client already has the answer; they just need someone to say it.

They could only wait to see if their ideas would land or if they’d become the scapegoats. If a client refused to acknowledge the root of a problem, Ping Yuan would simply produce a flashy PowerPoint and accept the result of a “useless” project.

She organized her files. She knew that for many managers in large, bloated corporations, admitting their ship was sinking into the sunset was painful. The old Ping Yuan, who believed in blunt honesty, would have sneered at such cowardice, but now she understood it a little better.

Being cut by a dull knife is agonizing. Whether in business or in relationships, lingering issues are the same. Sometimes, you’d rather believe that “whitewashing” a situation is a form of peace, at least it provides a facade to hide behind.

Like now, she was grateful for the glass partitions covered in data; no one could see the weary shadows under her eyes. Ping Yuan leaned against her desk, staring at her reflection in the black screen. She took a deep breath, pulled out her powder compact, and meticulously touched up her makeup.

Like repairing a painted mask; a literal act of whitewashing.

When she stepped out of her office, she was once again impeccable. She took a fever reducer; the light powder hid the flush of her low-grade fever. Everyone assumed her rosy cheeks and crimson lips were simply signs of high spirits.

Only she knew she was starting to feel a chill in her bones.

Everything as it should be. How long had it been since she used that phrase? Ping Yuan adjusted her collar, confirmed she looked perfect, put on her standard professional smile, and pushed open the glass door of the conference room.

No one noticed anything unusual. The meeting ended exceptionally well. Clients applauded her, and she returned the gesture with grace, never faltering. However, when she went to unplug the projector adapter, she stumbled.

Amy rushed forward to catch her, but Ping Yuan only swayed slightly before regaining her footing, avoiding the other girl’s hand. Her body gave a faint, imperceptible shiver, which Amy’s sharp eyes caught.

“What’s wrong? Is the AC too cold?” the girl asked with concern.

Ping Yuan felt her face burning, but she only smiled. “I think so.”

The smile was more beautiful than usual; almost bewitching. Amy dazed for a moment under her boss’s gaze, her previous concern vanishing as she followed the logic. “I knew they set the central AC too low today!”

The girl hurried off to find the receptionist to adjust the temperature. Ping Yuan stood there, the smile still lingering on her face like a siren’s song. A stray strand of hair fell; she tucked it back into place, ignoring the icy coldness of her fingertips.

*****

She believed she was hiding it well. Taking medicine on time, showing up for work; no one around her noticed the change.

Until Zhu Cijing shattered the facade.

It was a weekday night. Zhu Cijing had suspected something was wrong with Ping Yuan for a while. At first, she just thought Ping Yuan was acting suspiciously, going skating and out to movies and getting drenched in the rain in the middle of the night. She’d figured having a “young kid” in the house had finally made her robotic, cold-hearted friend show some human traits.

But then, she realized Ping Yuan’s sleep quality had become atrocious. Her friend had been suffering from insomnia for quite some time.

Zhu Cijing discovered this one night after coming home from drinks. In a drunken haze, she bombarded Ping Yuan with a series of funny short videos, only to receive an immediate reply: Send one more and I’m blocking you.

Mirror: ?

Zhu Cijing stared at her phone. Being scolded by Ping Yuan wasn’t the issue—this “knife-mouth, tofu-heart” woman had been telling her to “get lost” for years. What worried her was that over the next few nights, she discreetly messaged Ping Yuan in the early hours, and every time, the reply was nearly instantaneous.

For Ping Yuan, whose schedule had been as precise as a scientific instrument for years, this was the biggest red flag.

Zhu Cijing decided she couldn’t wait any longer. One night, seeing Ping Yuan online again, she sent a message straight to the point.

Mirror: Did you and your sister have a fight?

This time, Ping Yuan replied with a “?”.

Really Want to Sleep: How did you reach that conclusion?

Mirror: I’ve asked you what you were having for lunch every day this week for delivery inspo, and you’ve said “work meal” every single time.

Mirror: Let me count… one, two, three… it’s been at least a week.

Mirror: [Detective Corgi sticker] Your sister is willing to let you eat cafeteria box lunches for a whole week?

Really Want to Sleep: …

That smug Corgi sticker was incredibly annoying. Ping Yuan typed and deleted, typed and deleted. She wanted to say something, but felt it was unnecessary. Once you deny a truth, you have to build a lie to support it. Better to give a half-truth to save trouble.

It’s normal for a teenage girl to be moody with her sister over exam stress, right?

Thinking this, she stood up, poured a glass of water, and tried to type a dismissive reply: Mhm.

She was about to explain that they’d argued over her studies when Zhu Cijing moved faster. Ding.

Mirror: Does your sister have feelings for you?

Ping Yuan nearly choked to death on her water.

She coughed violently, feeling for a moment as if she were having a heart attack. After gasping for air, she finally put the glass down and took several deep breaths to stabilize herself.

You’re crazy. She sent those three words to Zhu Cijing through gritted teeth.

She didn’t know why Zhu Cijing would suddenly mention such a thing. Maybe it was a joke, or maybe she had actually seen something. Regardless, Ping Yuan wouldn’t fall for her trap. She replied expressionlessly: No.

Really Want to Sleep: Zhu Cijing, are you drunk again?

Mirror: Then you have feelings for her.

The second bombshell was like a free-fall from a drop tower. Ping Yuan gripped her phone, truly feeling like her heart was about to fail.

But more terrifying than a heart attack was the realization that, just as she knew Zhu Cijing was soft-hearted, she also knew Zhu Cijing was never “random.” To say something so blasphemous twice, even to a lifelong friend went beyond a joke.

For her to speak with such certainty meant Zhu Cijing had actually perceived something.

The last trace of a smile vanished from Ping Yuan’s face. She slowly set the phone down, thought for a moment, and then pressed the voice message button.

“Zhu Cijing,” she whispered. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Zhu Cijing’s reply came back: “I know.”

Text could never replace the weight of a voice. They both knew the conversation had officially left the realm of jokes.

“So,” Ping Yuan heard herself ask in a low voice. “When did you find out… that Xia Chao likes me?”

It was the first time she had spoken those words.

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