Always Home

Three days ago, Qiu Yang dropped a bombshell on Jing Qichi.

It was an ordinary workday after overtime. The two had ordered takeout on their way home, and within ten minutes of arriving, the delivery guy arrived right on time. Qiu Yang ate his diced potatoes, green peppers, and eggplant over rice while scrolling through short videos on his phone; Jing Qichi had a bowl of seafood noodles, his eyes mostly glued to the soccer match broadcast on TV—in short, this day was no different from any other.

Jing Qichi finished first and, as usual, leaned back in his chair to ask, "You shower first or me?"

With only one bathroom in the apartment and Qiu Yang’s washing-up and skincare routine taking at least half an hour, this order usually determined when Jing Qichi could video call Huan'er.

"Hold on," Qiu Yang stopped him then, putting away his phone, packing the takeout containers into a plastic bag, and turning down the TV volume before asking, "If Jiang Sen starts his own business, would you join?"

The launch of the medical platform had brought only momentary relief. Once it entered the sales phase, endless optimization demands followed. Jiang Sen remained the project’s driving force, rejecting the product manager’s far-fetched ideas while pushing the team to deliver integrated solutions. So when Qiu Yang brought this up, Jing Qichi initially thought it was purely hypothetical.

"Boss’s idea is to become a subcontractor for the company. Under the big tree of Huandao, there’s plenty of shade—lots of projects they can’t handle alone, and at this stage, they need reliable teams they know well to share the load." Qiu Yang’s expression was dead serious. "I plan to follow him."

Jing Qichi wasn’t surprised. Former bunkmates turned housemates, Qiu Yang was the type who burned with ambition to rise above. He admired and trusted Jiang Sen—or rather, he wanted to become someone like him.

Someone with both ability and savvy, who could take charge and let go—someone like Jiang Sen.

Jing Qichi suddenly felt a pang of sadness. He had been personally recruited by Jiang Sen to join Huandao, a move unprecedented and unlikely to be repeated. By all accounts—professional, personal, connections, or camaraderie—he ranked above Qiu Yang. Yet clearly, Qiu Yang’s words today meant Jiang Sen had confided in him first.

And for some reason, Jing Qichi hadn’t made the initial trust list.

He asked Qiu Yang, "Did Boss ask you to sound me out?"

"Doesn’t matter." Qiu Yang neither denied nor confirmed. After a pause, he said, "You’re on Director Li’s radar, and Gong Bo thinks highly of you. Jiang Sir doesn’t want to burden you."

This was likely something they’d discussed privately. Jing Qichi wasn’t stupid—he knew this was Jiang Sen’s way of looking out for him.

"So," Qiu Yang pressed, "what do you think?"

Jing Qichi was silent for a long moment before asking, "Still based in Beijing, right?"

"Of course. All the resources are here." Qiu Yang ventured a guess: "Huan'er?"

Just as Jing Qichi understood himself, Qiu Yang knew him too well. The first concern was inevitably location, and apart from Huan'er, Qiu Yang couldn’t think of any other reason his friend would ask.

Jing Qichi nodded honestly.

"Your Huan'er could come after graduation too," Qiu Yang argued, now firmly in persuasion mode. "With so many pharma companies in Beijing, a PhD like her would have no trouble finding the right fit."

No, that wasn’t it.Because before going abroad, Huan'er had inadvertently revealed—Ding Heping thought highly of her, and if she intended to stay at the university, her advisor would definitely lend a helping hand. At the time, Huan'er had said, "It would be great if I could really stay."

Jing Qichi smiled at his friend but made no comment.

"Professor Jiang, you know better than I do—he gives as much as he takes. He won’t shortchange his people," Qiu Yang said, looking at him. "Qi Chi, I won’t hide it from you. Some have already decided to leave. Even if you stay and the team leader changes, the old subordinates won’t have an easy time."

This was a heart-to-heart conversation, and Qiu Yang made sense with every word.

"Let me think about it," Jing Qichi said, rubbing his temples. "I can’t give you an answer right now—any of you."

Qiu Yang patted him on the shoulder and added, "Professor Gong might have caught wind of it too."

Jing Qichi looked up.

"Making things hard for you," Qiu Yang sighed. "Sorry, brother."

Earlier that day, before having this meal with Song Cong, Gong Naliang had indeed signaled a desire to "talk." Jing Qichi avoided it, saying, "Professor Gong, sorry, but my buddy’s in a tough spot. I need to go now."

"We’ll talk later," Gong Naliang told him, his gaze unsettling Jing Qichi.

A tough choice.

Whether to speak or not was hard, but whether to stay or leave was even harder.

Midnight in Beijing, the clamor had mostly faded.

The kitchen was closed, and the chefs and waitstaff had gathered at a separate table for their staff meal, chatting and laughing boisterously.

Song Cong tapped the table, analyzing rationally as always. "Pros and cons of leaving, pros and cons of staying—you know these better than I do. If you can’t figure it out, make a list. Use data, your strongest suit."

Jing Qichi replied, "It’s not that easy."

"Then complicate the data conditions. Add an impact ratio, assign coefficients to each pro and con," Song Cong said, resting his chin on one hand. "The more complex the calculation, the more precise the result."

Jing Qichi fell into thought.

He understood Song Cong’s point. The decision to stay or leave couldn’t be simplified—it involved salary, job fit, promotion opportunities, and industry prospects. He needed to assign a coefficient to each factor. The so-called impact ratio was just those external elements that forced him to reconsider, like the plight of his old subordinates, colleague relationships, and perhaps even...

"Try calculating it this way first," Song Cong said, looking at him. "Who knows? The answer might come before the results do."

Jing Qichi nodded silently.

The next day, sobered up, he messaged Huan'er. After waiting an hour with no reply, he recalled drinking quite a bit the night before. He’d dozed off in the taxi on the way home and couldn’t remember if he’d said anything harsh or revealed his frustration, upsetting her. Worried, he made an international call—unexpectedly, Huan'er’s phone was off.

Panicked, he asked Song Cong, who reassured him based on his own understanding, "It’s probably nothing. Didn’t Huan'er have a colleague’s birthday to attend? She might’ve stayed out late and is still asleep." Knowing his friend was stressed about work, he suggested, "Come play some soccer. Relax a bit."

Jing Qichi felt slightly better and told Song Cong, "I’ll shower and head over." He left Huan'er a message: "Call me when you wake up. I’m going to Lao Song’s school to play soccer."

Huan'er had turned off her phone on purpose.In fact, she had left the gathering early last night before the midnight birthday celebration for the guest of honor. The task assigned by Mark was suffocating—time-consuming, labor-intensive, and mentally frustrating. Yet, refusing to do it wasn’t an option, as her assistant supervisor held the lifeline to her graduation. So, Chen Huan'er had no choice.

By the time she was ready to sleep, dawn was already breaking. On her desk lay a third of the graded assignments. Having pulled an all-nighter, Huan'er’s head was heavy and muddled, while her stomach began to ache faintly again. She turned off the desk lamp and drew the curtains, creating the illusion of night to force herself to rest for a while. But her rebellious stomach seemed determined to fight her, and the pain became unbearable. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited everything into the toilet.

Only the sound of flushing water filled the silence—London had yet to wake to the clamor of a new day.

“This is awful,” Huan'er muttered to herself, her nose tingling with unshed tears.

She thought of Mark’s unfriendly expression, of the lofty ambitions she had before studying abroad, of the encouragement from Ding Heping and her senior classmates, and of Jing Qichi and Song Cong laughing and chatting loudly together.

But now, in this apartment in a foreign land, all she could hear was her own breathing.

Leaning against the toilet, she stood up and shuffled back to bed with sluggish steps.

She really wanted to call Jing Qichi, but after picking up the phone, she stubbornly turned it off instead.

It seemed Jing Qichi could live just fine without her.

With friends around, family by his side, fulfilling work, and a happy life.

She felt forgotten—in this time zone reset to zero, in this unfamiliar city of perpetual rain.

By ten in the evening, Huan'er’s phone was still off.

Jing Qichi couldn’t find anyone to contact—he didn’t have the numbers of any of her lab colleagues. He even considered calling Qi Qi, but since she was in a different city from Huan'er, it would only cause unnecessary trouble, so he dropped the idea.

Just then, Qiu Yang knocked on his door. “Barbecue tomorrow?”

“Barbecue?”

“Yeah. Jiang Sen found a spot. We bought all the stuff today,” Qiu Yang said. “A few people from the company are coming too.”

Hearing that others from the company would be there, Jing Qichi instantly flared up. “Qiu Yang, are you forcing me to pick sides?”

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Qiu Yang punched the door at his cold tone. “Jing Qichi, who the hell do you think I am? Whether you go or not is your own fucking business. Don’t act like the whole world’s out to get you!”

With that, Qiu Yang turned to leave but stormed back halfway through the living room. “Jiang Sen said everyone’s been working hard lately, so he’s organizing a get-together. Fine, if you think it’s about picking sides, suit yourself. But don’t you dare treat my goodwill like dirt!”

He slammed the door shut, and a moment later, the same loud noise came from the opposite room.

Jing Qichi had nowhere to vent his anger. He paced around his room like a headless fly before finally sitting back down on the bed.

At such a sensitive time, inviting everyone out as the team leader—Jiang Sen, who could handle even the most difficult clients, never did anything without purpose.

If he went, he’d be automatically grouped with them. But if he didn’t, with Jiang Sen’s future still uncertain, staying behind would likely push him outside the safe circle.

This chessboard was laid out too perfectly.The phone vibrated, and Jing Qichi answered with a barrage of questions, "What happened that you had to turn off your phone? If your battery died, couldn’t you borrow someone else’s to send me a message? Chen Huan’er, look at how many texts I sent. I couldn’t reach you or anyone else—did you even think about how worried I was?"

Huan’er pressed her temples. "Weren’t you going to play soccer?"

Turning off her phone had been a deliberate act of isolation—she had papers to grade and lecture materials to prepare. Everything was a mess, and if she submitted them late, Mark would bombard her with endless nitpicking. Huan’er had no choice but to shoulder the pressure alone. Far from home, she had no one to rely on.

How nice it must be to be Jing Qichi. Among the flood of incoming messages, only this first one unsettled her—he still had time to play soccer. He had that luxury, yet he couldn’t spare a moment to hear about her struggles.

His lukewarm tone sent a chill through Jing Qichi’s heart. He tightened his grip on the phone. "Huan’er, I have my own difficulties too."

"Yeah, who doesn’t?" Huan’er rubbed her swollen eyes, staring at the dense English words before her. "I won’t turn off my phone again. But I’m really busy right now and don’t have any extra energy to spare."

"Fine, I won’t bother you." Jing Qichi wanted to say more, but the next moment, he heard Huan’er reply, "Let’s leave it at that. Bye."

The call ended abruptly.