Oops, I’m the Scumbag Ex in Her Storyline - Chapter 65 (EXTRA 3)

Last summer, Li Jingshu moved out.

Her daughter’s career was flourishing, while her other daughter spent all her free time renovating the house. Li Jingshu had bought a bigger house with better scenery, completely redecorated it from top to bottom, with every room thoughtfully designed for the elderly. After seeing the video Xin Yan had made for her, she cried and laughed, finally leaving in high spirits.

Lu Wanqiu, too, was overjoyed—finally, no one was bothering her.

Li Jingshu wasn’t in good health. Once she left, it was impossible for her to come back to visit anyone. Wanqiu’s words had come true: after so long, Li Jingshu’s name never came up in her ears again.

It was as if this person had completely vanished from the world.

Wanqiu thought: hasn’t it always been like this?

As long as they didn’t come, as long as they didn’t want to appear again, Wanqiu would never see their faces. For others, the world was the world. For Wanqiu, the world was her tiny sickroom. With Li Jingshu gone, Li Jingshu no longer existed in her world.

Wanqiu never mentioned Li Jingshu, and her nurse couldn’t detect any special feelings she had toward her, so she kept her silence as well.

Nurse Huihui had married last year and was now five months pregnant, her belly already noticeably rounded. Since she hadn’t started maternity leave yet, she continued to come to work.

Usually, she didn’t work night shifts. That day, she left a bit late. By six o’clock, night had completely fallen. Looking outside, Huihui asked Wanqiu, “Miss Lu, it’s already dark. Do you want me to open the curtains? It’s very clear tonight—you can see the stars.”

Wanqiu’s condition noted that she couldn’t tolerate sunlight, though moonlight was fine. Yet, all these years, Wanqiu never opened her curtains, day or night. The nurses were grateful to leave when their shifts ended; if they had to live there long-term like the caregivers, they would eventually resign.

“No.”

Huihui was a little disappointed, but she was used to it.

She opened the door and stepped out, unaware that Wanqiu had suddenly glanced at her belly.

It seemed that last year had been an unusual one, bringing changes to everyone’s life. Li Jingshu had gone to reunite with her daughters. Huihui had gotten married. The former department head had become the new director of the sanatorium, while the old director finally retired to enjoy life.

Everyone spoke of last year with smiles, but Wanqiu couldn’t smile. To her, last year, this year, or any year was no different from the past.

Even the book in her hands had lost its charm. Tossing it aside, Wanqiu sat in her wheelchair and slowly lifted her head to look at the window, thick curtains drawn tight. She stared for a long while, long enough that she began to pinch her own fingers. Only after that did she lower her head, push her wheelchair back, and go to sleep.

Life continued like this. Huihui’s belly grew larger. Others worried about childbirth and the baby’s health, but Huihui worried more—she also worried that after she left, others wouldn’t care for Wanqiu properly.

One day, while training the nurse who would succeed her, a package was delivered. Seeing the sender’s name, Huihui froze for a moment, then bent down to lift it. The other nurse quickly intervened, not daring to let her do it herself, and carried it inside.

Huihui followed. As soon as she entered, her excited voice reached Wanqiu’s ears: “Miss Lu, Aunt Li sent something for you!”

…

Wanqiu opened the package and found a few rods and a circular device. Several nurses squatted on the floor, figuring out how to assemble it. Once assembled, Wanqiu realized it was a lamp.

But it was unlike any lamp she had ever seen—no lampshade, and the bulb was unusually small.

Huihui knew what it was. She hushed the other nurses, plugged it in, and gently switched it on.

The orange light spilled onto the white walls—a color Wanqiu had never seen in her room before.

She froze. Huihui, standing beside her, said excitedly, “Beautiful, isn’t it? This is a sunset mood lamp. Its light mimics a sunset. Miss Lu, do you like it?”

Wanqiu didn’t answer.

Inside, her heart’s answer was: beautiful, yes, I like it.

That was why she refused to speak. She didn’t know exactly why, but she felt like she was in a contest. She couldn’t tell the truth, couldn’t yield to these things.

To yield would be to lose.

Even though she didn’t know who she might lose to.

She had seen sunsets countless times—on TV, tablets, computers. The images were more beautiful, more refined. But those pictures existed only on small screens, just like she existed only in this tiny sickroom. Without seeing them firsthand, she barely felt any stirrings. Now, seeing it with her own eyes, the stirrings were overwhelming.

Because an unavoidable thought arose:

How many of these moments had she missed?

It’s easy to err; errors continue. But if one starts wrong and admits it midway, correcting it, few are willing to do so.

It burns the face, makes the whole world feel like it’s laughing at you, even if no one notices.

Unable to sleep that night, Wanqiu sat up and noticed the package box Huihui hadn’t thrown away. She realized it had been repackaged—Li Jingshu had first bought it to her own home, then sent it to Wanqiu.

Peeling off the top shipping label, she saw another underneath. Something clicked. She checked the tracking number on her tablet and realized this package had been bought months ago. Li Jingshu had purchased it long ago.

Why deliver it only now?

Wanqiu thought, suddenly understanding. Bei Lanlan’s carefulness wasn’t natural talent; it was likely inherited from Li Jingshu. She had waited to send this because now was the perfect time—long enough away for Wanqiu to truly believe she would never appear again. Only now would this gift stir her emotions most effectively.

Perhaps the tracking number was left intentionally—knowing Wanqiu would find it, leaving a clue.

Wanqiu, exhausted, had lost the capacity to fully reason.

That night, she slept by her bed, forgetting to cover herself until the caregiver came in the morning.

This weekend, Huihui would officially start maternity leave. In these last days, she planned to work less and spend more time with Wanqiu, even though Wanqiu might not need her company.

Entering the room, Huihui saw Wanqiu sitting in the living area, holding the book she hadn’t finished. The sunset lamp was put away—no need to ask; Wanqiu had done it herself.

Huihui sighed quietly. She walked over to adjust the desk lamp when Wanqiu suddenly looked up.

“How’s the weather today?”

Huihui, seasoned after years of work, replied, “Uh… sunny, sunny turning cloudy? Why do you ask all of a sudden?”

Wanqiu lowered her head. “I just wanted to ask.”

Huihui stared blankly for several seconds, finally realizing something. She looked at Wanqiu in disbelief, afraid she was overthinking: “But weather forecasts aren’t reliable. It looks like it might rain. Do you want me to open the curtains so you can see?”

Wanqiu first turned a page in her book, then casually answered: “Just a slit. Don’t open too much.”
________________________________________

Author’s Note:

Psychological issues like this cannot be fixed in a day or two—it takes years, sometimes over a decade, to heal. But once the process starts, progress will come more smoothly. This is Wanqiu; anyone can grow backward with life, but not her.

Having someone who loves her could accelerate the process, giving her a strong motivation. I imagine she will eventually meet someone—bright, cheerful despite hardships, a little rascal who constantly brings chaos into her life, keeping her too busy to dwell on herself.

But this story can’t cover that in just a chapter or two—it would become another novel entirely.

And with that, this story officially ends.