Always Home

Jing Qichi had a million questions about how he ended up in this state.

Collisions were common on the field, and he believed he had been ten times more cautious than usual with the selection trials approaching. Yet, in just one moment—getting up without feeling anything, even running a few steps—suddenly, the pain became unbearable. It was excruciating, not just in his leg, but his entire body went numb for a split second from the agony.

It’s over. That was the only thought when the pain hit.

Of course, he knew what an ACL tear was, and he understood that a meniscus injury only made things worse. But there was nothing he could do—life didn’t come with an undo button.

He just couldn’t understand why it had to be him.

During his two days in the hospital, his emotions swung wildly. Sometimes, he convinced himself that heaven was testing his resolve before bestowing greatness—rest well, recover, and return to the game. After all, many players worldwide had bloomed late. Other times, he felt he simply wasn’t cut out for this, and fate had placed obstacles to make him quit—realizing the truth sooner would free him sooner, as some persistence was just foolishness.

These thoughts were his alone. His parents were worried, his friends concerned, and he didn’t want his every move to add unnecessary stress to them.

On his first night back home, his parents came to his room for a long talk. His mother said she had contacted a local rehabilitation center, where one of the partners was her college classmate. They were fully aware of his condition, so he should focus on training without any reservations. His father mentioned calling the Football Academy coach to explain the situation, though he had politely declined the coach’s offer to visit. The priority now was rehabilitation—whether he could still pursue a professional career or choose another path was a discussion for later. Some things had to be taken step by step. Jing Qichi listened, recognizing some truths, some white lies, some indirect guidance, and some heartfelt comfort. "Yes," "Okay," "I know," "Don’t worry"—these phrases rearranged themselves into his responses. He couldn’t think of a better way to reassure his parents.

On the second weekend of his rehab, Huan’er sneaked in. At the time, he was lying flat on the therapy bed, performing straight-leg raises as instructed. Ten reps per set, alternating with knee bends—five sets of each. Since starting the training, bruises had appeared under his skin, spreading from his calf to his foot, turning his entire right leg a deep purple-red. He had refused Song Cong and Huan’er’s company for two reasons: first, he didn’t want his friends to see this gruesome sight, and second, he didn’t know how to face their gazes—lifting and lowering his leg, a movement effortless for most, was a struggle for him. He didn’t want to become the pitiable figure in their eyes—clumsy, foolish, and utterly useless.

During a brief pause, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, Jing Qichi spotted Huan’er standing at the training room door. She wore a denim outfit with a small crossbody bag, her hands gripping the leather strap tightly.

"Come on, keep going," the therapist urged.

He turned his head away and repeated the motions.

Afterward came the massage to reduce swelling and physical exercises to strengthen his leg muscles. Huan’er sat on the training bench by the door like an observer, not approaching even during short breaks.

Only when the therapist said, "Rest well when you get back. Take a painkiller if it hurts too much," did she finally walk over. Silently, she picked up the crutches leaning against the wall and placed them by the bed, her face nearly expressionless.

Sitting on the bed, trying to ease the soreness from the session, Jing Qichi asked, "How did you get in?"

"Aunt Lin brought me.""Where's my mom?"

"She was afraid seeing her might make you uncomfortable, so she went back to cook."

Jing Qichi paused, then laughed. "And you’re not afraid I’d feel uncomfortable seeing you?"

"Impossible." Huan'er was utterly confident. "You wouldn’t." She looked at him and added, "Actually, it’s no big deal."

The tall boy who had broken the school’s high jump record now lay flat on the bed, repeatedly performing the simplest leg lifts. Beads of sweat rolled from his forehead to the corners of his eyes from the effort. Jing's Father was right—compared to the physical pain, the psychological blow was far harder to bear.

The professional path he wanted to take, the green field he loved, the dreams that had been within reach—all of it was crushed into dust by these repetitive leg lifts, ground into powder.

She couldn’t think of any words of comfort, so she could only tell him it was no big deal.

"Me," Jing Qichi began slowly, one hand resting on his injured knee, "before the surgery, I kept thinking, worst case, I’d repeat a year. I’d train day and night for a year—how could I not recover? Then I’d come back and try out again, good as new." He looked up at her. "But Chen Huan'er, I realized it’s not possible. It’s just not."

It wasn’t about forcing growth or rushing things. His body had sent a clear signal from the start—what you’re longing for is a fantasy, I can’t do it, so don’t even think about it.

Jing Qichi knew his thoughts would be met with opposition from those around him. Now, with everyone relieved, there was no need to dissuade him—he had already faced the truth.

Just let it go.

After saying this, he grabbed his crutches and stood up with practiced ease. "Where’s Song Cong?"

"He was supposed to come together," Huan'er said, wanting to help but unsure where to place her hands, so she awkwardly let them drop. "But his grandmother got sick. Uncle Song and the family went to Song Cong’s aunt’s place. They probably won’t be back until tomorrow."

Jing Qichi gave a quiet "Mm." "Feels like forever since I’ve seen Lao Song."

In reality, it had only been ten days. Last week, Song Cong had even dropped by for a meal and taught a chapter of math. It was just that when you saw someone every day, you grew accustomed to their presence. Time split into different speeds, like a day for immortals was a year for mortals.

"You didn’t come with us, so Song Cong spent the whole trip explaining problems to me," Huan'er replied.

Jing Qichi laughed. "Don’t thank me." After a pause, he added, "Don’t come anymore."

"You don’t want me to?"

"No." The boy wanted to explain but didn’t know where to begin with all those scattered reasons, so he simply stayed silent.

"Alright then." Huan'er nodded obediently. She just remembered what Jing's Mother had said on the way—Jing Qichi often woke up in the middle of the night from the pain, took painkillers, and forced himself back to sleep. He wasn’t someone afraid of pain; he just didn’t want to delay the tiny bit of progress he could make the next day.

He never mentioned soccer or tryouts, never cried or made a fuss, never complained or voiced his grievances. It was as if he had silently, effortlessly let it all go. No one knew what he was thinking.

A month after his injury, Jing Qichi returned to school on crutches.

As soon as they entered the school gates, Song Cong was called away by Director Fu, so Huan'er matched the pace of the injured boy as they slowly made their way across campus. His unusual appearance drew many stares—whispers were one thing, but some even giggled at the sight of him. Huan'er clenched her fists, anger boiling in her chest. Jing Qichi, however, didn’t seem to mind. "If someone actually tries to hit me, then you can step in. I can’t fight back right now."

Huan'er shook her head. "No way. I’m counting on you to train with me."The morning playground had a few people jogging, while the soccer field in the middle stood empty, its goalposts bare and lonely without nets. Jing Qichi stopped and gestured toward them with his chin. "I used to get scolded by the coach all the time for doing pull-ups on the goalposts. He said they weren’t sturdy enough."

This was the first time he had brought up anything related to his injury since it happened.

As Huan’er hesitated over what to say, he had already started walking again, not sparing another glance.

She quickened her pace to catch up, blocking his path as she pulled a notebook from her backpack. Flipping to the last page, she began reading aloud without hesitation, "In 1984, Roberto Baggio suffered a torn ACL in his right knee and received 220 stitches. But in 1987, he scored his first Serie A goal and saved Fiorentina from relegation. In 1998, Del... Del Piero tore his ACL, but in 2006, he scored a hat-trick in the second leg of the Coppa Italia round of 16. In 1999, Ronaldo suffered a complete ACL rupture, and just when everyone thought he’d retire, he made a comeback in the 01-02 season and regained his form..."

Jing Qichi finally realized what she was doing.

"In 2006, Michael Owen tore his ACL, and in 2008, he became the captain of New... Newca..."

"Newcastle."

"Right, New... Newcastle captain..."

"Chen Huan’er," Jing Qichi called out.

"...became captain and scored 11 goals that season..."

"Huan’er," he said louder.

Only then did the girl lift her head. This guy always called people by their full name—she looked at him, slightly puzzled.

After a few seconds of silent eye contact, Jing Qichi’s lips quirked up. "Thank you."

The past was a vast existence, and the human brain’s limited storage couldn’t possibly hold it all. But at this moment, Jing Qichi was absolutely certain—no matter what happened in the future, no matter how much time passed, he would remember this morning.

On an ordinary spring morning, a teacher from the academic office stood at the school gate checking students’ appearances, while a few others joked around on duty nearby. Faces passed by, some tired, some bright. And there, stubbornly standing before him, was a girl in uniform, stumbling through names and teams she barely recognized from a notebook filled with meticulous notes. The sunlight illuminated her face so clearly that even her eyelashes seemed countable. Her posture was straight, her tone serious, and her expression so focused that not even the end of the world could distract her.

A morning that would undoubtedly remain vivid forever.

Chen Huan’er wasn’t good at Chinese, so he had no idea how long she had spent or how much effort she had put into compiling this neatly organized summary. The only thing he knew was her intention.

She wanted to tell him that the road ahead was long—this was nothing.

Even though, after gathering so much information, she must have realized that many of those players’ careers didn’t end perfectly because of such injuries.

"Of course," Huan’er replied with a smile, tucking the notebook away. "Let’s go."

She was happy—a little proud, a little relieved—because it had been so long since Jing Qichi had smiled like that.

That day, their classroom was constantly visited by teammates from the school team, nearly all of them stopping by. They carefully avoided mentioning training or tryouts, their words all variations of the same theme: Rest well, recover, and we’ll play together again when you’re better.

For most of the remaining time, Jing Qichi stayed silent—either reading, doing exercises, or copying Song Cong’s notes. At dinner, Huan’er and Song Cong walked him to the school gate, where Jing’s father picked him up by car.Day after day, Jing Qichi recovered quickly, shedding his crutches and braces, and seemed to gradually adapt to a life without running or jumping. When the weather turned warmer, Jing's Father was transferred to a fire brigade in another province, beginning a long-distance marriage. Song Cong naturally took on the role of "driver," with his first task being to install a rear seat on his cherished mountain bike. Every day, the three of them commuted to and from school with two bikes. Jing Qichi no longer resisted studying, but his grades remained at the bottom of the class. He often zoned out, especially during P.E. classes, sitting on the bleachers with a book in hand but his mind completely elsewhere.

It must be frustration, Huan'er thought. Even though everyone and every sign suggested it was impossible, the gradual recovery had invisibly given rise to hope—that damned, irresponsible hope.

As spring drew to a close, everyone waited in hope for the blazing summer to arrive. Yet without any warning, Song Ma had an accident.