He walked behind the screen, mechanically took off his damp and cold sweater, and put on the loose and rough blue and white striped hospital gown that smelled of disinfectant.
The cold fabric against his skin made him shiver.
After changing his clothes, he did not sit back in the chair. Instead, like a wandering soul, he slowly moved to a place a few steps away from the bed and leaned against the cold wall.
He didn't dare get too close, as if the person lying on the bed was an illusion that would shatter at the slightest touch.
Drop by drop, the icy liquid slowly trickled down the pale back of the hand. The ECG monitor at the bedside emitted a faint, rhythmic beeping sound, its screen dancing with undulating green lines, the only evidence of the remaining vitality within this endangered body.
Chao Youye's breathing seemed to be smoother than before, but still rapid, and a thin layer of white mist condensed on the oxygen mask.
Mu Xinrong's eyes were fixed on the unconscious face and the pair of tightly closed eyes.
He was waiting. Waiting for those eyes to open, to reveal once again the cold, indifferent gaze of a god? Or... waiting for the lines on the heart monitor to turn into a hopeless, eternal straight line?
The wind and snow pounded against the clinic's windows, making a dull sound. Time passed slowly and heavily amid the smell of cold disinfectant and the monotonous ticking of instruments.
Mu Xinrong leaned against the wall, his body slowly sliding down, and finally curled up on the cold floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face in them. His shoulders trembled slightly uncontrollably.
In the empty clinic, there was only the regular ticking of instruments and the curled-up figure in the corner, with his extremely suppressed, broken sobs.
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