Always Home

On the second day of the holiday, Du Man treated Song Cong to a meal.

It was deliberate. To arrange this, she first inquired about his day off, then swapped shifts with a colleague the night before to free up the day. Of course, it didn’t take much effort—she was already an incoming graduate student at Peking University Medical School, and barring any surprises, she would remain in this circle. Adults all understood the value of connections.

Even the supervising teacher, who had coldly scolded her with "quit if you don’t want to work" and given her the cold shoulder for a long time, made a point to congratulate her upon hearing the news. "It’s tough balancing internships and grad school prep. We might not always understand, but do bear with us," he said amiably, though his sudden warmth left Du Man feeling oddly disappointed.

She mentioned this to Song Cong, who asked in confusion, "Why?"

"Later, I realized it wasn’t his fault at all," Du Man admitted. "Hospitals have their rules, rotations have their protocols. Even if it’s grunt work, it’s what I signed up for. Squeezing in study time during work hours—if no one called me out, it was out of kindness, not obligation."

"So?"

"If he’d stayed the same, I’d have thought, well, he’s just a bit rigid." Du Man poked at the greens in her bowl with her chopsticks. "But the moment he found out I got in, his attitude… suddenly changed."

Song Cong immediately understood. "Afraid you’ll outshine him someday?"

Du Man sighed and looked at him. "Is the prestige of a top school really that powerful?"

Song Cong thought for a moment, then nodded. "For a while, yes."

"But not forever, right?" Du Man sighed again. "After graduation, we’ll still have to start from scratch. It’s something you and I both get—why doesn’t he?"

"Maybe he’s looking further ahead." Song Cong smiled. "Who knows? You might decide to pursue a Ph.D. after your master’s, skyrocket to fame as the sought-after ‘Expert Du.’ Then it’d come in handy, wouldn’t it?"

Du Man laughed and waved him off. "Like you and Huan’er? I don’t have that kind of perseverance."

"Huan’er?" Song Cong frowned. "Huan’er’s going for a Ph.D.?"

"Yeah, at our school, a combined master’s and Ph.D. program. She’ll probably apply by the end of the month." Du Man didn’t think much of it. "She hasn’t told Jing Qichi yet—probably worried you’d spill the beans, so she kept it quiet."

Song Cong fell silent.

Of course, he understood better than anyone what a Ph.D. meant—time.

Even though he knew Chen Huan’er was no longer the struggling small-town girl who barely scraped into Tianzhong High, she had never stopped pushing forward. Every steadfast, solid step had carried her to where she was now—higher and farther.

These years at Yanyuan had taught Song Cong one thing: some people were indeed born with gifts greater than others—perhaps he was one of them—but far more relied on unshakable conviction and unparalleled tenacity to break through the walls of fate and carve out a path drenched in sweat and blood. Like Du Man before him, and like his friend Chen Huan’er.

Song Cong would never stand in her way. Only...

"You have to trust them," Du Man said, leaning her arms on the table. "Honestly, I haven’t interacted much with Jing Qichi, but I know Huan’er. She wouldn’t do it if she didn’t think it was possible—whether it’s academics or relationships."

"Qi Chi should be the first to know."

"Right, I agree." Du Man nodded. "But he should hear it from Huan’er herself."

Song Cong’s worry lingered. "The sooner he knows, the sooner he can plan. A few years isn’t a small thing."Du Man blinked at his furrowed brows, then crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.

"Song Cong," she called out casually while sitting comfortably, "Do you know what your biggest problem is?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"What about me?"

Du Man studied him quietly for a moment before propping her chin on one hand and tracing his outline in the air with the other. "You—you need to learn to be a bit more naive."

Song Cong heard every word clearly. He pressed his lips together, brows still knitted.

"For example," Du Man glanced around the small restaurant before turning back to him, "You didn’t have to consider my expenses and pick a place like this. When I said I’d treat you to a big meal, it was a genuine thank-you for your help. One meal isn’t a big deal." She paused briefly before continuing, "You’re only in your twenties. Why always rush to think with the mindset of a forty-year-old?"

Song Cong was silent for a moment before murmuring, "Habit."

He had grown accustomed to this long before adulthood, as if only by thinking far ahead could he wrestle with the unforeseen challenges lurking somewhere.

"Yes, you would." Du Man neither agreed nor disagreed, speaking calmly. "Back in the Family Compound, I’d already heard about your mother. Everyone faces upheavals in life, big or small, but that doesn’t mean we have to plan for everything meticulously in advance. Not all foresight is good."

Song Cong stared at her, his gaze inscrutable.

"You need to learn to be a bit more naive," Du Man repeated, meeting his eyes with a faint smile. "Taking things one step at a time has its own joys, you know."

Song Cong turned his head away, silent.

"Angry?" Du Man was still smiling.

"No." Song Cong scratched his brow. No one had ever so bluntly and accurately pinpointed his thoughts like this. He was just—unusually—a little flustered.

Extremely uncharacteristically, a little flustered.

Du Man reached across the table and tugged his sleeve. "Xiao Song, honest advice is hard to swallow."

The nickname made Song Cong laugh. "Xiao Song?"

"Well, you are Xiao Song," Du Man’s eyes curved like crescents. "I strongly suspect you’ve been aged prematurely by Jing Qichi’s influence. My dad still calls your dad Lao Song."

Hearing this, Song Cong asked, "How’s your dad’s health?"

Two years ago, Du’s mother had sold the hospital store and moved the whole family to the countryside. Song Cong later learned from Huan’er that Du Man’s father had undergone a checkup due to persistent shoulder and back pain, which revealed heart issues unsuitable for high-pressure work. After leaving the Family Compound, they leased an orchard through a friend’s referral and settled into life as melon farmers, far from the bustle of Tianhe. No one had tasted their watermelons yet, but judging by Du Man’s demeanor, life was stable and comfortable.

"Better than ever. He treasures those melons more than me." Du Man extended an invitation, "When Huan’er comes back, you all should visit. We’ve got a kang and a big stove—nothing fancy, but watermelons galore."

"Kang?" Song Cong had been to the countryside before but had never actually seen the legendary heated brick bed.

"Yeah, my dad built it himself." Du Man said this offhandedly, her face brimming with pride. "Come on, let me show you the Du family’s way of life."

"Deal!" Song Cong replied, then added with a slight smile, "Peace of mind leads to good health.""I'm actually scared too," Du Man looked at him. "But who doesn't have things they fear? Getting through each day thinking today wasn't so bad, day after day, living a life where you're scared yet happy—that's not too bad a way to go."

"Now you're lecturing me?" Song Cong stroked his chin, watching her with interest. "Du Man, naive people couldn't say things like that."

Du Man froze momentarily before breaking into a grin. "Exactly. That's why I'm still learning too."

Before this meal began, none of them had imagined the conversation would lead here. About friends, about family, and about that version of themselves always overthinking, trying to cover all bases. Back in the same classroom, he was the top-ranked student praised by teachers and envied by peers, while she was the quiet girl burying herself in books, clinging to that one straw that might change her fate. They'd hardly crossed paths, or perhaps until this very moment, had maintained a friendship as mild as plain water—each existing in the other's mind as little more than a fixed image, sketched out in a few simple strokes.

To Song Cong, Du Man suddenly became vivid in this moment. The things she cared about and wanted to change, what she clung to and strove to maintain—all of it filled him with a belated yet fortunate sense of understanding, as if they should have met sooner.

For Du Man, that person could finally be moved from the "classmate" category into "friends"—the brilliant, sun-like Song Cong became just an ordinary person. Flesh and blood, with his masks but also his sincerity. Just an ordinary person like that.

Learning to be naive wasn't easy, so after returning to school, Song Cong still sent Huan'er a message: "Du Man told me about your plans for a Ph.D. You should tell Qi Chi soon."

Huan'er received the message while the gathering was still ongoing—after yesterday's match, programmer Xiao Tao had been called back by his boss to salvage a crashed server, forcing Dalin to postpone the dinner by a night. The long-separated brothers reminisced about that match they could have won to redeem themselves against the international students, lamented the hardships of life, deadly overtime, and impending baldness. The group drank themselves into a stupor, with no intention of heading home even late into the night. As one of the accompanying partners, Huan'er had no choice but to fulfill her duty. She didn't find it unbearable, though, because they talked about many things she hadn't known—events that had happened during that blank period when she and Jing Qichi kept their distance, observing each other from afar. Through their conversation, she leisurely pieced together everything about him as a bystander.

The law school girl who'd chased him until exhausted before giving up; the time in sophomore year when he hacked the school server on a dare and nearly got disciplinary action; and that one winter when, out of the blue, he bought a women's sweater as a gift for someone, only for Dalin to regift it to his then-girlfriend—only now did Huan'er learn he'd once quietly prepared a birthday present for her.

Through twists of fate, a half-drunk Dalin dug up a friends-only post to show the sweater's design—a pure white mohair pullover, fluffy all over. Jing Qichi had always had good taste.

Huan'er replied to Song Cong, "Yeah, I know."

But what good did knowing do?

Right now, watching him, she just couldn't bring herself to say it. Because under the table, Jing Qichi was gripping her hand tightly—knuckles distinct, veins prominent—as if to say: "It's great. We're almost through this."