I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 3

The blue and red flashing lights atop the Mount Qingwu ambulance sliced through the morning mist as it sped toward the nearest county hospital. Cheng Sutong drifted in and out of consciousness in the back, where every breath pulled at a deep ache in her chest. An Chuxin sat beside her, her left hand gripping the edge of the stretcher while her right hand held a phone. The screen displayed a search page titled, “Key nursing points for sudden adolescent arrhythmia.”

“Ms. An,” Cheng Sutong suddenly spoke, her voice rasping like sandpaper. “I was not doing this on purpose.”

“I know,” An Chuxin interrupted, her eyes never leaving her phone. “Do not talk. Save your strength.”

Her tone remained clipped and concise, a characteristic trait of a teacher. However, only she knew that the moment Cheng Sutong had fainted in her arms, something had broken through all her professional training. As she carried the light student across the mountain’s stone paths, only one such thought occupied her mind: Do not let go. I absolutely cannot let go.

Standing outside the consultation room, An Chuxin watched through the glass partition as the doctor performed an ECG on Cheng Sutong. The girl’s wrists were thin and pale, and the faint blue veins were clearly visible beneath her skin.

“Are you a family member?” the nurse asked while holding a medical chart.

An Chuxin hesitated for a split second before answering. “I am her homeroom teacher.”

The nurse looked up at her, and something flickered in her eyes; it might have been sympathy or perhaps judgment. An Chuxin loathed that look. She pursed her lips, took the chart, and signed her name in the guardian column. The pen scratched against the paper, each stroke heavier and more forceful than usual.

An Chuxin.

The moment those three characters were written, a certain responsibility shifted from “professional” to “personal.”

The results confirmed that the arrhythmia was triggered by acute stress, requiring twenty-four hours of observation. An Chuxin called the school to report the situation. After hanging up, she stood at the end of the corridor clutching her phone, looking out at the drab morning cityscape of the small county.

The screen went dark, reflecting her face. Her hair was a mess, and a stray lock had escaped her hair tie to hang over her forehead. On the collar of her cream-colored shirt, there was a small, dark water stain. Was it from Cheng Sutong’s tears or the mountain dew? She raised a hand to tidy herself but stopped halfway.

The sound of rolling casters echoed behind her as Cheng Sutong was moved to a small observation ward on the third floor. An Chuxin followed her in. The room was tiny, containing only a hospital bed, a bedside table, and a hard plastic chair. The curtains were a pale blue, and the sunlight filtering through cast blurred spots of light on the concrete floor.

“Press the bell if you need anything,” the nurse said before closing the door.

The world suddenly fell silent.

An Chuxin sat in the chair, her back still ramrod straight and her hands resting on her knees. It was her habitual, defensive posture. Cheng Sutong lay on the bed with her eyes closed. The medication pulled her into a deep sleep, though her brow did not fully relax even in her dreams.

An Chuxin sat there guarding a student who should not have been a part of her private life.

Her phone vibrated. It was a message from her mother’s caregiver: “The auntie was in pain all night and just fell asleep. Are we still transferring hospitals today?”

An Chuxin stared at the screen as her fingertips tightened. Mount Qingwu, the hospital, her mother, the medical bills, and Cheng Sutong’s pale face all collided in her mind. These images eventually became a suffocating exhaustion.

She typed a single word: “Transfer.” Then she added, “I will be back this afternoon.”

She locked the screen and placed the phone face down on her lap.

Looking back at Cheng Sutong, she suddenly noticed a detail: even in sleep, the girl’s right hand was tightly clutching the hem of her hospital gown.

She was afraid.

An Chuxin realized this, and the realization pierced through the professional distance she worked so hard to maintain. She remembered the previous homeroom teacher mentioning that this girl had congenital heart disease.

After an unknown amount of time, Cheng Sutong’s eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. Initially, her eyes were blank with the haze of waking, but they gradually focused on An Chuxin’s face. There was no surprise and no fear, only a bottomless exhaustion.

“Ms. An,” Cheng Sutong whispered.

“Yes,” An Chuxin responded, finding her throat tight. She stood up to pour some water, her movements stiff from sitting for so long. The disposable paper cup trembled slightly in her hand, causing small ripples on the surface of the water.

She handed the cup over. Cheng Sutong tried to prop herself up but lacked the strength due to her weakness. Subconsciously, An Chuxin reached out to support her shoulder. Through the thin hospital gown, she could feel the protruding shoulder blade, which felt like a wing that might snap at any moment.

The touch caused both of them to freeze.

Cheng Sutong’s body went rigid, and An Chuxin’s fingers lingered on her shoulder. In those few seconds of silence, the only sound was the regular, monotonous beep of the bedside monitor.

An Chuxin withdrew her hand, pressed the cup into Cheng Sutong’s grasp, and turned back to her chair. The sequence of movements was so fast it felt like an escape.

Cheng Sutong took small sips of water. The warm liquid moistened her cracked lips and throat, bringing a slight sting. She stole a glance at An Chuxin. The woman had resumed her rigid posture and was staring out the window. Her profile looked exceptionally cold and hard in the morning light.

But Cheng Sutong saw something else.

An Chuxin’s hand, hanging by her side, was unconsciously pinching the hem of her shirt. It was a gesture that betrayed her nervousness. Furthermore, the pulse in her neck was fluttering slightly faster than normal.

She was nervous too.

This discovery made Cheng Sutong’s heart twitch gently.

“The doctor says you are fine for now, but you need to be observed for twenty-four hours,” An Chuxin said suddenly, her eyes still fixed on the window. “I have already arranged leave with the school. You should get some rest.”

Her voice was flat, representing the kind of flatness that comes from an effort to suppress all emotion. Neither of them mentioned what had happened the previous day.

Cheng Sutong nodded and took another sip of water. “Thank you for bringing me to the hospital.”

“It is my duty,” An Chuxin said. She paused, then added, “If you feel unwell, you must say so immediately. Do not force yourself to endure it.”

The words were spoken stiffly, yet Cheng Sutong heard something else: a hidden attempt at care.

The ward fell back into silence.

Leaning against the pillow, Cheng Sutong watched the pale blue curtains billow slightly in the morning breeze. She remembered the hospital rooms in 2024, which had the same curtains and the same smell of disinfectant. Except back then, she was alone.

“Ms. An,” she said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“You do not have to stay here with me all the time,” Cheng Sutong said softly. “I can manage on my own.”

“I know you can,” An Chuxin interrupted, finally turning her head to look at her. “But since I am the one who brought you here, I will be responsible for you until the end.”

Her gaze was direct and unwavering. Under that stare, Cheng Sutong involuntarily held her breath.

Responsible until the end.

Those words echoed in the quiet ward, as heavy as a vow.

An Chuxin looked away as soon as she finished speaking, as if the statement had been a mere afterthought. She stood up and walked to the window with her back to Cheng Sutong. The sunlight outlined her thin but upright silhouette, and the shoulder seams of her cream shirt were slightly wrinkled from the long hours of wear.

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