After that night, Zong Yi was no longer allowed to enter the ICU.
The doctor only said Yan Hanxie's condition had "slightly fluctuated" and required stricter isolation and rest.
It was as if she had been shut outside the eye of a storm, only able to piece together the world behind the door through the nurses' once or twice daily updates that grew shorter and more vague.
The reports no longer included words like "blurred consciousness" or "mumbling nonsense." Instead they were replaced by more neutral—and more unsettling—descriptions like "long periods of unconscious sleep" and "vital signs maintained."
Zong Yi still remained in the waiting area.
Time lost its scale. The boundary between day and night blurred into a gray haze of anxiety.
She ate very little and slept even less. Her whole body grew thinner at a visible pace, her eye sockets sinking deeper, only those eyes shining frighteningly bright because of a certain stubborn waiting.
The prayer beads on her wrist had almost become part of her body. Her motion of rubbing them became mechanical and persistent, as if they were the only token connecting her to that unknown world behind the door.
Sometimes, in moments of extreme fatigue and trance, her fingertips seemed to remember the delicate damp touch of that cold forehead and the burning trace of that breath that had never become a kiss.
That unfinished kiss lingered like a ghost in her heart day and night.
Every time she thought of it, her heart would tighten suddenly as if pulled by invisible threads, bringing a dull pain mixed with lingering fear, stirring emotion, and deeper confusion.
What had she wanted to do? What had she almost done?
And the Yan Hanxie inside the ICU seemed to be haunted by that ghost as well.
According to a younger nurse who would occasionally reveal a little more later, Ms. Yan indeed murmured vague dream words while half-conscious.
Different from the earlier chaotic "don't go" and "it hurts," sometimes the sounds were more… private.
"Once she frowned and moved her lips for a long time. I leaned closer to listen and it sounded like she was saying 'cool'…" the nurse recalled in a casual tone, as if describing an ordinary clinical observation. "Then she said 'want… warm.'"
"Another time, while monitoring in the middle of the night, she suddenly sighed very softly and said, 'A kiss… and it won't hurt anymore.'" The nurse paused, glanced at Zong Yi whose face had instantly stiffened, and added, "Her voice was very soft, like she was dreaming. After saying it she fell back into deep sleep."
A kiss… and it won't hurt anymore.
At that moment Zong Yi's blood nearly froze, and the only thing left in her ears was the thunderous sound of her own heartbeat.
Her cheeks began to burn uncontrollably, and then were drowned again by deeper panic and shame.
That unfinished kiss… did she feel it?
Even in that kind of blurred, half-conscious state?
Or was it just delirium caused by high fever or medication, a secret dream that belonged only to Yan Hanxie, completely unrelated to her own absurd action?
She did not dare think too deeply.
Yet that brief, broken murmur was like a seed with barbs, embedding itself deeply in her heart and growing vines that made her restless day and night.
She began to imagine uncontrollably what Yan Hanxie had been dreaming about during those long stretches of sleep controlled by medication and pain.
Did she dream that someone really kissed her?
And that person… would it be herself?
In the dream, was that kiss a gentle comfort, or… something else "excessive," something enough to make even the clear-minded Yan Hanxie feel "tender and stirred"?
Once that thought appeared, it spread like wildfire, leaving her mouth dry and her mind restless.
She tried to extinguish it with reason—that was the nonsense of an unconscious patient, a side effect of medication, any possibility except the one answer she both feared and faintly anticipated.
However, late at night when everything was quiet, when she curled up alone on the cold sofa in the resting area, listening to the drizzle outside the window or the faint beeping of distant instruments, those imaginations became uncontrollably vivid.
She could almost see in the dim ward Yan Hanxie's pale face relaxing slightly in her dream, her closed eyelashes trembling gently because of some sweet or shy scene.
She could see a vague, warm silhouette leaning down close—was it the dream-version of herself, or some other illusion?
Then a gentle kiss truly fell, landing on the corner of her forehead, on the center of her brows, or… somewhere even more excessive.
That kiss carried a trembling warmth and tenderness, dispelling the shadow of illness and bringing a brief moment of peace, even… a trace of longed-for comfort and pleasure.
"Tender and stirring"…
Zong Yi suddenly covered her face with both hands, her palms burning hot. She felt like she had gone mad.
Not only because she had produced such overstepping, shameful fantasies, but because deep within those fantasies, there had grown a faint desire that even she herself trembled to acknowledge.
A desire that the kiss had really happened, a desire that she herself had been the one in the dream, a desire to use some method to drive away all of Yan Hanxie's pain and coldness.
This desire was unfamiliar and fierce, like a trapped beast that had been imprisoned for a long time and had finally smelled a crack in the iron cage.
She clenched the prayer beads on her wrist tightly. The wooden beads pressed deeply into her flesh as she tried to use pain to pull her runaway thoughts back.
She must not think.
She should not think.
Yan Hanxie was still struggling on the line between life and death. How could she sit here and use such filthy thoughts to speculate and imagine?
But the more she suppressed it, the more stubborn the thought became.
Yan Hanxie's broken murmurs and her own unfinished act on the edge of the cliff were like two shattered mirrors reflecting each other, refracting countless bizarre and heart-pounding possibilities.
She began to avoid looking at the nurses' eyes, afraid she would hear more unbearable details from their calm reports.
She even began to fear the automatic door opening, afraid to see a nurse walk out bringing any fragment of speech related to those "dream murmurs."
Waiting had become a silent torture of self-inflicted execution.
Finally, on the afternoon of the seventh day after Yan Hanxie had been admitted to intensive care, the doctor brought a relatively clear piece of news: the most dangerous acute phase seemed to have passed, her vital signs were gradually stabilizing. Although she was still weak and required strict monitoring, she could attempt to transfer to a regular single room in the neurology department for follow-up recovery and treatment of the underlying cause.
"Being transferred out of the ICU does not mean she is completely out of danger," the doctor reminded seriously. "Her autonomic nervous dysfunction is the root problem. This episode caused significant damage. Recovery will be very slow, and relapse is possible. Emotions, stress, and fatigue can all be triggers. She must absolutely rest and cannot receive any stimu-lation."
Zong Yi listened, her heart beating heavily in her chest, once, then again.
The heart she had been holding up for seven days did not truly settle after hearing "transfer out of the ICU." Instead, the doctor's later words pressed an even heavier stone on it.
"She… when will she wake up? Completely wake up?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
"Hard to say. The medication will be reduced gradually, but her body is extremely depleted and the nerves need time to repair. It could be soon, or it could still take a few days. After waking, cognition and emotions may fluctuate. She will need patience." The doctor looked at her. "You are currently the only registered visitor she has mentioned personally. After transferring to a regular ward, visits may be allowed appropriately, but you must strictly follow medical instructions. The time must be short, remain quiet, and you absolutely cannot let her emotions become agitated."
Zong Yi nodded, her throat tight, unable to speak.
The only registered visitor.
The one she personally mentioned.
Those words seemed to carry warmth, pressing gently against the place in her chest that had been cold for too long, yet also bringing a sharper soreness.
That evening, Yan Hanxie was transferred into a single room in the neurology department.
The room was spacious and bright, with a private bathroom and a small balcony. Outside the window one corner of the hospital garden could be seen.
Without the dense instruments and urgent alarm sounds of the ICU, the environment seemed much quieter. However, a monitor still stood at the bedside, and an IV line remained in her arm.
Zong Yi was allowed to conduct her first visit under a nurse's supervision. The time limit was only ten minutes.
When she entered the room, Yan Hanxie was asleep.
Her face was still pale, but the ashen sense of someone close to death had faded somewhat.
Her long hair had been combed by a nurse and spread softly across the pillow.
The nasal oxygen tube had been replaced with a smaller, more delicate one. The precordial leads had also been reduced, making her look less like a trapped beast bound by tubes.
She slept deeply, her breathing steady and long. Her brows were no longer tightly furrowed, as if she had temporarily escaped the entanglement of pain.
Zong Yi stood beside the bed and watched her quietly for a long time. Seven days without seeing her felt like the distance of an entire lifetime.
Those anxious days of waiting, those chaotic imaginings, those fears and desires she had chewed over alone late at night—all strangely settled down when faced with this peaceful sleeping face, turning into a deep ache that almost made her cry.
She remembered the nurse's words about those murmured dreams.
"A kiss… and it won't hurt anymore."
Her gaze involuntarily fell again on Yan Hanxie's smooth forehead, where the marks of electrode tape had already disappeared.
As if guided by some unseen force, she leaned forward a little again.
She could smell the faint scent on Yan Hanxie's body, mixed with medicine and cleaning solution, and a trace of her own cold natural scent.
That unfinished kiss and those embarrassing dreamlike fantasies surged up uncontrollably again.
This time there were only the two of them in the room (the nurse was outside the door). Yan Hanxie was sleeping deeply, looking peaceful and harmless.
That distance seemed within reach.
Zong Yi's fingertips curled slightly, her breathing unconsciously held.
Just a little lower…
Just…
At that moment, Yan Hanxie's eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.
Zong Yi reacted as if burned. She straightened abruptly and stepped back a large step, her heart pounding wildly as if it would crash out of her chest.
Yan Hanxie did not wake.
She only moved unconsciously, her lips shifting slightly as she released an extremely faint, indistinct murmur.
The sound was too soft for Zong Yi to hear clearly.
But the vague tail of that syllable instantly reminded her of the nurse's description.
Her cheeks began burning uncontrollably again.
She did not dare remain any longer. Almost fleeing in embarrassment, she nodded hurriedly to the nurse at the door and quickly left the room.
In the corridor she leaned against the cold wall, breathing heavily as if she had just escaped a life-and-death chase.
The prayer beads on her wrist swayed gently because of her hurried movements.
She lowered her head to look at them, remembering again the vague murmur from Yan Hanxie in her sleep and her own moment of nearly losing control.
That layer of window paper seemed thinner and thinner, more and more transparent.
So thin that she could clearly see the outline of the person on the other side, see fragments of those tender and stirring dreams leaking out during unconscious sleep.
And she stood on this side of the paper, fingertips suspended, her heartbeat thundering.
Afraid that with a single light poke everything would collapse into ruin.
Yet also afraid that if she did not pierce it soon, this silent torment, this surging nameless emotion, would devour her completely first.
—
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