Hedgehog's Belly - Chapter 68

Chapter 68

“Hmm?” Yan Qingzhu turned her head toward her, murmuring after a moment of contemplation: “In my father’s understanding, it should be someone who knows how to be flexible, knows how to handle things, and someone whose background is thoroughly known.”

“Personally, I feel that regardless of status, it’s simply anyone worthy of one’s true heart.” Yan Qingzhu leaned in, whispering into Luo Mu’s ear. The proximity made her nerves tingle and the tips of her ears burn a deep crimson.

“Can a person only have one confidant in a lifetime?” Luo Mu looked up, asking cautiously.

“Not necessarily. People can even have heart transplants. Replacing a close friend—what does that really amount to?” Yan Qingzhu’s eyelashes fluttered slightly. The restrained gentleness in her gaze was something Luo Mu rarely saw.

Her tone was relaxed and frank, but the reality was surely otherwise.

Luo Mu sighed: “That must be very painful.”

“Perhaps so,” Yan Qingzhu said lazily, pulling Luo Mu into her arms again. The distinct scent of woody jasmine hid a hint of greenness, like a breeze harmonizing with the stillness of a summer evening.

To let a person permeate one’s life, to knead them into one’s bone and blood, only to eventually tear and peel them away. If both parties truly understood the situation, the reason they would eventually become strangers was simply that they were no longer a community of shared interests and values.

“What, you want to be my confidant?” Yan Qingzhu glanced at her, a sliver of craftiness rising at the corner of her mouth. She rubbed Luo Mu’s head, her fingertips twining around a few strands of hair.

Luo Mu closed her eyes to nap for a moment, resting her head on Yan Qingzhu’s shoulder, yet she responded: “I am unwilling.”

The answer was so natural that Yan Qingzhu didn’t even probe further.

“Then I’ll wait for the day you say you’re willing,” Yan Qingzhu placed her hand over Luo Mu’s slightly cool one, pressing her palm against her own left chest.

Her eyes were exceptionally serious, her articulation clear as she said: “There is always a position held for you.”

“Only you.”

Her voice deepened with tenderness.

It was strange; facing the person she loved, Yan Qingzhu found it difficult to choose silence.

Through the slight contact of their thin clothing, Luo Mu could feel the rhythmic beating of the other’s heart.

Vivid, possessing the powerful vitality of a twenty-year-old.

Yan Qingzhu was telling the truth; she wasn’t lying.

Luo Mu lowered her eyes. Being firmly chosen might be a blessing.

Or perhaps, a curse.

Long-term torment from her self-protection mechanism felt like tiny, endlessly spreading vines clutching her ankles, seemingly strangling her to prevent her from flying high.

Luo Mu looked up, seeing her own reflection in Yan Qingzhu’s pupils.

It was like a greedy, sweet confrontation.

“But I will make you suffer.”

Luo Mu joked, her gaze showing no emotional fluctuations. She took Yan Qingzhu’s hand, fingers interlocking, their palms burning hot.

To be selfish, for so many years, the power of choice seemed to have always resided with Luo Mu.

“I’m not afraid of suffering; I’m afraid of not being happy.” Yan Qingzhu also nuzzled her, still carrying the slight nasal congestion of a cold now that her fever had broke.

These words were indeed as innocent as a child’s.

For Yan Qingzhu, it seemed any bitterness only needed a piece of happiness the size of a lemon candy to be cured.

Luo Mu gave up and laughed as if coaxing a child: “That fever a few days ago really burned some wit into you.”

The corners of Yan Qingzhu’s mouth lifted faintly as she pressed herself tightly against Luo Mu’s lap like a spoiled cat.

But Luo Mu didn’t say the one sentence she wanted to say most.

Azhu, have you ever thought about why we become unhappy because we pursue happiness?

When Luo Mu had finished slicing the watermelon and plating it simply, she was about to set it on the living room coffee table when she realized Yan Qingzhu was staring intently at dozens of photos and albums.

When Luo Mu used a fork to stuff a piece of watermelon into Yan Qingzhu’s mouth, Yan Qingzhu finally reacted, mumbling: “Can’t I have cold watermelon?”

“What do you think?” Luo Mu feigned indifference, using a lecturing tone: “Don’t eat cold things during your period.”

Luo Mu always remembered how Yan Qingzhu used to drink and eat ice constantly, not even stopping during her period. Later, her body suffered from severe internal cold, forcing her to undergo traditional Chinese medicine treatments for half a month, which left her feeling dazed and silly from the herbal brews.

Back then, Yan Qingzhu would try every trick to escape, dumping out the medicine in various ways whenever Luo Mu wasn’t looking, only to be caught red-handed every time.

Eventually, out of helplessness, Luo Mu made her finish it in front of her every single time. But Yan Qingzhu would always act up to gain an advantage: “If I take a sip, can I be rewarded with a kiss?”

“Finish it,” Luo Mu would say unceremoniously.

“Sister, just two gulps.” Yan Qingzhu would soften her stance, holding up two fingers.

“No, finish it.” Luo Mu still wouldn’t budge, standing up to leave: “If you don’t finish it, don’t come to see me.”

Yan Qingzhu would instantly lose her resolve, grabbing Luo Mu’s wrist. Frowning slightly, she would adopt a submissive, pleading posture: “Fine, fine, fine, I’ll drink it.”

“Don’t leave, I’ll drink.”

In the thirty-degree Celsius midsummer weather of Lingyang, she wasn’t allowed to eat cold watermelon. If it were anyone else, Yan Qingzhu would have made a scene already. But because it was Luo Mu, she simply nodded instinctively in compromise.

“You need to take care of your health during the Dog Days of summer,” Luo Mu reminded her, then turned her attention to the photos scattered across the table.

Luo Mu picked up a photo at random; it was of a frail, thin infant in an incubator. The baby hadn’t opened its eyes yet, was intubated, and had its chest covered in electrode stickers.

Luo Mu’s pupils dilated instantly, and her breath hitched.

She had never seen a scene from a NICU before, but facing such a tiny, fragile life, she couldn’t stop her heart from aching.

Let alone when it was—

Luo Mu turned her head and immediately met Yan Qingzhu’s gaze, which was calm and gentle.

She never expected that the frail, tiny premature baby in the photo would, years later, grow into a girl capable of withstanding all hardships.

“This…” As soon as Luo Mu spoke, her voice trembled.

Yan Qingzhu nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world, answering calmly: “That’s me.”

Deeply moved, Luo Mu rubbed her thumb over the photo, lightly touching the infant’s thin hand, which was barely the size of a knuckle.

An indescribable bitterness surged in her heart. Memories carried the distinct smell of hospital disinfectant; the ECG screen in the photo seemed to actually be pulsing, yet there was a fear of it going flat.

In the intensive care unit, there is nothing one can do but entrust all hope and love to fate. Life and death are too unpredictable; every step is a wager against the Grim Reaper.

“Muzi-jie?” Yan Qingzhu called out in a low, probing voice. Luo Mu blinked, finally snapping out of it.

Her expression still unsettled, Luo Mu suddenly cupped Yan Qingzhu’s face, gazing at her intently. Her features were beautiful yet mixed with a touch of sharpness, the high and slender bridge of her nose was handsome; no matter how one looked at her, she had the bone structure of a true beauty.

“Fortunately,” Luo Mu watched her for a long time before slowly exhaling the word.

“Hmm?” Yan Qingzhu was bewildered: “I’m fine, Muzi-jie.”

The dazed, silly look of the person before her brought Luo Mu back to her senses. The hands cupping Yan Qingzhu’s face gave her cheeks a little pat.

The force was a bit too much; it wasn’t until Yan Qingzhu cried out in pain that Luo Mu was sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“I just… feel quite bad for you.” Luo Mu put the photo down, unable to bear looking at it a second time.

Yan Qingzhu stuffed more watermelon into her mouth. Though it was a cool sweetness, an unnamed sourness rose in her heart.

“Is Sister feeling bad for her,” Yan Qingzhu pointed at the photo, then pointed at herself: “Or feeling bad for me?”

Luo Mu was instantly amused and exasperated: “That fever really did muddle your brain.”

Most of the photos were from her childhood. The young Yan Qingzhu was clearly naive and cute, with baby fat when she smiled; it was hard to imagine she was the same person as the Yan Qingzhu standing here.

Luo Mu held up a photo of little Yan Qingzhu practicing hard-pen calligraphy, staring intently at the handwriting.

Among the many sentences, Luo Mu caught a familiar line.

[Even if fate is rugged and painful, I will kneel before the gods and kowtow until my head bleeds to beg for a smooth path for your life.]

Luo Mu fell silent instantly.

Some causes and effects were planted a long, long time ago.

Carrying a hint of affected sentimentality, these flowery words had been sealed away in her childhood. It was only years later, through careful reading, that the meaning was slowly understood. It was plain yet sincere, and because of this pretentious sentence, it had led to a wonderful encounter.

Because of this one sentence, seventeen-year-old Luo Mu’s gaze had finally landed on Yan Qingzhu.

Luo Mu stared at the photo for a long time, subconsciously laughing out loud.

In the photo, little Yan Qingzhu was seriously writing every character, upright and elegant, while the practice template had been tossed aside.

“Oh, this one. I wrote it randomly while my mom wasn’t around,” Yan Qingzhu glanced at it and explained with a smile. “I was copying the Lingfei Jing back then, but as a kid, I couldn’t sit still for long. I always thought I could pull off a masterly style myself.”

Luo Mu laughed inwardly, flipping through dozens of childhood photos of Yan Qingzhu—solo shots, photos with her sister, all kinds. But as she kept looking, it felt increasingly strange.

“Why don’t I see any photos of you after your teens?” Luo Mu looked up, meeting Yan Qingzhu’s eyes.

Yan Qingzhu organized the photos, saying slowly: “My parents divorced after I turned ten.”

She didn’t need to say more of the story; Luo Mu naturally understood.

Luo Mu nodded and didn’t probe further.

“Does Muzi-jie have childhood photos?” Yan Qingzhu asked in return, picking out the sweetest piece of watermelon heart to stuff into her mouth.

Luo Mu chewed softly, contemplating for a few seconds before shaking her head.

The family wasn’t that well-off when she was young. She hadn’t even heard of a “digital camera” until her teens, learning about it from her younger brother. Later, as she grew older, she feared the judgmental looks of others and always deliberately avoided the lens, as if she only belonged in corners where she wouldn’t be seen.

“Do you want to see the childhood me that much?” Luo Mu forked another piece of watermelon and asked unhurriedly: “If you met the childhood version of me, what would you want to do?”

Yan Qingzhu paused, gazing calmly at Luo Mu for a moment. The smile remained on her lips as she stood up and moved closer to Luo Mu.

“I’d give her a big hug, of course.” Yan Qingzhu pulled her into a tight embrace, as if a hug could convey all their feelings. Her voice was magnetic and husky as she said word for word: “And then I’d tuck her into my pocket and take her home.”

“To tell her that she is wonderful, and that someone loves her.”

Yan Qingzhu’s words were like a thin, exquisite moonlight finally shining into an unnoticed valley.

“Loves her very, very much.”

The words landed in her heart, creating gentle ripples.

The tips of Luo Mu’s ears gradually turned pink. In that moment of joy, a faint sourness rose in her nose.

The fairy tale was too beautiful; Luo Mu couldn’t bear to turn to the final page of the cruel ending.

But in the end, Luo Mu still whispered a murmur.

“What if one day, the little hedgehog in your pocket… wants to run away?”