Waiting outside the ICU was like a torture with no end.
Zong Yi no longer tried to deal with work, nor did she pretend to be calm.
She curled herself into the sofa in the corner of the waiting area, staring blankly at the tightly closed automatic door.
Sunlight squeezed in through the gaps of the blinds, slowly moving across the carpet, from bright to dim yellow, and finally disappearing completely, replaced by the heavy dusk outside.
Nurses occasionally went in and out, bringing brief and vague updates: "Blood pressure stabilized." "Arrhythmia temporarily controlled." "Still under observation."
Each word lightly plucked the taut string inside her, making her heart suddenly tighten or slightly loosen, yet never truly settle.
She was like a sculpture that had lost its fuel. Only the prayer beads on her left wrist were being unconsciously rubbed over and over again.
The texture of the wooden beads had long become familiar. Their cold temperature seemed to have been warmed slightly by her body heat, yet the heavy weight of them only grew heavier day by day, pressing painfully against her wrist bone and pressing on her chest until she could hardly breathe.
The scene from that five-minute visit replayed again and again before her eyes: the face pale to transparency, the unfocused yet struggling gaze, the faint breath beneath the oxygen mask, the cold fingertip's almost imperceptible hooking strength… and the words stuck in her throat at that time that she ultimately failed to say.
What should she have said?
What could she have said?
"You will get better"? Pale and powerless.
"The company needs you"? Cold and selfish.
"I…" I what?
That unfinished word was like a seed wrapped in thorns, stuck in the deepest part of her chest. Every heartbeat brought a hidden sting of pain and panic.
She did not dare to examine what it was. It only felt unfamiliar and dangerous, as if touching it would ignite something she could neither control nor bear.
Night deepened.
The corridor lights dimmed, becoming even quieter.
Most of the accompanying family members had fallen asleep in the waiting area, emitting faint snores.
Zong Yi had no trace of sleepiness. She still stared at that door.
Her phone screen lit up in the darkness. It was a message from her assistant, asking for instructions about an urgent issue concerning the 'Spark' project.
She stared at that line of text for a long time before slowly typing a reply.
Her fingertips were cold and stiff, her thoughts like they were separated by a layer of frosted glass, blurred and sluggish.
After finishing, she put down the phone, her gaze falling back to her wrist.
As if guided by some unseen force, she unclasped the prayer beads and slid the whole string off, holding them in her palm.
One hundred and eight beads, a heavy little handful.
In the dim light, the sheen of the wood appeared restrained and deep.
She counted them one by one with her fingers, the movement very slow, as if performing some unconscious ritual.
Her fingertips slid across the cold surface of each bead, the sensation clear and real.
When she counted to the fifty-fourth bead, her movement stopped.
That barren and noisy space deep in her heart seemed to have something gradually settle down along with this repetitive, monotonous action.
Not an answer, not an enlightenment, but a deeper confirmation that was almost bewildered.
Confirmation of what?
Confirmation that this string of beads was truly in her hand.
Confirmation that the original owner of the beads was lying behind that door at this moment, balanced on the line between life and death.
Confirmation that between them, besides the cold superior-subordinate relationship, besides the entrustment of that authorization letter, besides those ambiguous and dangerous tests and tug-of-war… there seemed to be something else.
That thing had no form or substance, yet it existed heavily, just like the prayer beads in her palm right now.
It made her subconsciously send that message when her father was critically ill; it made a lonely resonance pass through her heart when Yan Hanxie sent that photo of dusk; it made her sit here now like a wandering soul with nowhere to return, with nothing she could do except wait.
What was it?
She didn't know.
Just like she didn't know whether there was also such a heavy, indescribable wasteland in Yan Hanxie's heart.
The sound of the automatic door sliding open startled her awake. A nurse walked out and came straight toward her.
"Miss Zong, Ms. Yan has been awake for a while and her condition is temporarily stable. She said… she wants to see you again. It can't be for long."
Zong Yi's heart suddenly lifted.
She quickly put the prayer beads back on her wrist and fastened them. When she stood up she even staggered slightly.
Once again she put on the isolation gown, disinfected, and passed through that door.
The light and smell inside the ICU were the same as before, the sounds of the machines forming an eternal background.
Yan Hanxie was still lying there. The oxygen mask had been removed and replaced with a nasal oxygen tube, which made her pale face slightly clearer.
She was awake, her eyes looking at the ceiling. Her gaze was still somewhat blank, but there was a little more faint vitality than before.
Hearing the footsteps, she turned her head extremely slowly, her eyes landing on Zong Yi.
Zong Yi walked to the bedside and stopped.
The two silently looked at each other.
Yan Hanxie's gaze once again moved to Zong Yi's left wrist, seeing that the string of prayer beads was properly worn there.
Her expression seemed to soften for a moment, then was quickly covered by exhaustion.
Her lips moved, her voice a little clearer than before but still weak and hoarse. "…The company…"
"Vice President Sun is handling the daily operations, 'Spark' is moving forward according to plan, there are no problems for now." Zong Yi immediately answered, speaking quickly, as if she had already prepared the answer. "You don't need to worry."
Yan Hanxie nodded almost imperceptibly, as if even that tiny motion consumed strength.
She closed her eyes, then opened them again, focusing her gaze on Zong Yi's face and looking for a long time.
"You…" she said, her voice very light, carrying a strange calmness. "You've gotten thinner."
Zong Yi's throat tightened again.
She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
"Here…" Yan Hanxie struggled once more to lift the hand without the IV. This time she managed to raise it a few inches, her fingertip faintly pointing toward Zong Yi. "Isn't good. You… don't stay all the time."
She was telling her to leave.
Telling her to leave this place filled with illness and the smell of death.
Zong Yi didn't move, she just looked at her, looking at the way Yan Hanxie's brows faintly knit together and the thin sweat forming at her temple because of that tiny action of lifting her hand.
"I'll wait until you're more stable," Zong Yi heard her own dry voice say.
Yan Hanxie tugged slightly at the corner of her mouth, as if she wanted to smile but failed, leaving only a bitter curve.
"Stable…" she repeated the word, her gaze drifting slightly as if recalling something, or perhaps simply from exhaustion. "Who knows."
She lowered her hand and closed her eyes again. Her breathing became slightly rapid because of the speaking and movement just now, and the nasal oxygen tube made a faint hissing sound.
The numbers on the monitor fluctuated slightly with unease again.
The nurse softly reminded from outside the curtain.
Zong Yi knew the time was up.
She looked at Yan Hanxie's tightly closed eyes and slightly trembling eyelashes. That heavy, shapeless thing in her heart churned even more fiercely.
A voice inside urged her to say something, do something, while Yan Hanxie could still hear and still sense it.
But say what?
Do what?
Say "I'm worried about you"?
Say "Don't let anything happen to you"? Or…
In the end she said nothing.
She only reached out her hand and, extremely gently, touched with her fingertips the back of Yan Hanxie's hand that lay outside the blanket, covered with needle marks and cold.
The touch vanished in an instant, like a feather brushing past.
Yan Hanxie's eyelashes trembled violently once, but she did not open her eyes.
Zong Yi withdrew her hand and clenched it tightly into a fist, her nails digging deeply into her palm.
Then she turned around. Without looking again, she quickly left the bedside.
She walked out of the ICU, removed the isolation gown, and stood in the empty corridor.
Cold air poured into her lungs, making her shiver.
She lowered her head and looked at the fingertips that had just touched the back of Yan Hanxie's hand.
There still seemed to remain a trace of that cold, fragile touch.
And in the wasteland inside her heart, something was quietly growing and spreading in a corner unseen by anyone, carrying sharp pain and indescribable confusion, binding her tightly.
She knew something had changed.
But what it was, she still did not dare to name, nor did she dare to examine it deeply.
As if once it was spoken aloud, the fragile balance struggling on the edge between life and death would completely collapse.
And she, and the person lying on that hospital bed, were not yet ready to face the mess that might follow after that collapse, or… the even more unplaceable selves they might become.
So it was better not to say it.
Just like Yan Hanxie had only said "You've gotten thinner," had only urged her to leave, leaving behind only that bitter "Who knows."
Both of them were carefully avoiding that truth that seemed bottomless yet close at hand.
Because "what if one day we never meet again"; once spoken, apart from adding embarrassment now and sorrow in the future, it seemed to have no other use.
Zong Yi slowly walked back to the waiting area and sat down again. Outside the window, the night was thick like ink.
She raised her left hand. The prayer beads on her wrist looked like a silent period in the dim light, yet also like a wordless question mark.
She pressed them tightly against the place of her heart, as if doing so could cover the silent yet roaring storm there that no one else could understand.
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