Chapter Text
Dear Wang Zhen,
I hope this letter finds you well, though it is destined to be placed in a position that brings neither of us joy. Still, for my sake, and for the sincerity with which I express my thoughts about you in this letter, please try to be happy.
Alright? My dear brother?
When I pick up the pen, I often don’t know where to begin. So, let me start with this:
For these 26 years, I have been indebted to your care.
Thank you for taking such meticulous care of me during my illness. Thank you for accompanying me across the ocean to this unfamiliar country. Thank you for always keeping that sorrowful truth from me, even though it never diminished my love for you in the slightest.
I don’t want you to think that this matter was the final straw that broke me. Mom and Dad gave me shelter, a home, a place where I could blurt out during our arguments, “I’m telling Mom, and she’ll make you leave.” These things will not disappear because of this truth.
To be honest, I am grateful that I only learned of it in the final moments of my life.
Mom was in a car accident back home. I guess you knew about it too and even instructed them not to call me, right? You didn’t need to do that, because direct blood relatives cannot donate blood to one another. A doctor’s medical knowledge would prevent them from contacting me, and I believe that with the blood bank’s reserves and our parents’ financial means, there wouldn’t be a shortage of blood.
But exceptions happen, don’t they?
When I received the call from the young nurse, he seemed unaware of this medical fact. He couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t use a relative’s blood and instead relied on the blood bank. At the time, I patiently explained, but he cried and said, “What if you’re adopted? Isn’t that how it always plays out in dramas? Wealthy families only discover their true identities during blood donations.”
When I heard this, I was left speechless.
The reason I went to the hospital for a blood test wasn’t because I doubted our blood ties. At that moment, I genuinely hoped I wasn’t Mom’s biological son so that I could donate blood to her.
For so many years, I never knew my blood type. It wasn’t until the doctor typed “unknown” into the computer that I realized this fact. This was the first time—the first time—I truly considered the possibility.
In elementary school, you never let me participate in physical exams. In middle school, you explicitly forbade me from joining sports events. In high school, when I played with snakes, you finally stopped intervening—not because you didn’t want to, but because in your eyes, I had finally grown up a little and gained some ability to protect myself.
You never wanted me to bleed, even though you were the one who most often made me bleed.
When the blood type report came out, when the printed slip was handed to me, I finally understood.
There is no love without reason, no hatred without cause. Everything in this world has its reasons.
Why does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Why does the moon shine at night and fade during the day? From ancient attempts to explain natural phenomena to modern scientific explanations, humanity has always maintained its curiosity about the world.
In middle school, during politics class, we learned that motion is eternal, while stillness is temporary.
I frowned, unable to comprehend it.
A table sits steadily on the ground—it isn’t moving. The teacher encouraged us to imagine: while the table appears unchanged in the present, every moment, its internal and external conditions are shifting. In places we cannot see, the table legs might be gnawed by termites, the wood composing the table is constantly decaying, and even the sturdy metal parts—if they don’t rust in a year, what about three years? Five years?
If we stretch time to an infinite scale, nothing remains unchanged. We merely mistake permanence on a timeline as tiny as a grain of rice.
After that day, I spent an entire day reinterpreting the past.
After that day, I resolved to start writing letters.
Without constraints of time, I might write one a day or one a month.
In life and after death, I want to entrust my thoughts about those important to me onto these pages.
Before I turned 17, I didn’t understand why you hit me.
At 20, I still didn’t understand.
It wasn’t until I was 21 that I began to guess.
You never explained these things to me, never gave me reasons, expecting me to figure them out on my own. At the time, I cried and told you I’d rather never understand.
The 21-year-old me completely betrayed the 20-year-old me.
In high school, when someone bullied me, you didn’t confront them but instead turned on me, beating me until I was barely breathing. When those bullies saw me on the verge of death, they knelt and begged you to stop.
Do you know what I was thinking in that hazy moment?
I thought, I hated you, Wang Zhen.
I’ve almost settled here now. My psychologist is astonished by my memory—I can recall every detail of the past 26 years, the joys and sorrows, the happiness and pain. He can’t persuade me to forget, nor can he perform an “Obliviate” charm like in Harry Potter. All he can do is guide me to take these memories lightly.
A person’s memories are their most private possessions.
And now, I am laying my most private ones bare for you to see.
If I hadn’t parted ways with Chi Cheng, I wouldn’t have understood.
Pain can distract the mind, and blood rushes to the injured area. My body is healing every second, my wounds fading with each passing moment. They are merely proof—
Proof of the correctness of your thoughts, proof of the errors in mine.
I’ve lost count of how many tears I’ve shed in front of you.
Taking medication long ago became a habit in your arms. Sleeping long ago became a habit by your side. During my fits of rage, I grew accustomed to your arms encircling me. In my depression, I grew accustomed to the warmth of your blankets.
Perhaps, in some way, I do like you, Wang Zhen.
In moments I never consciously realized, I made you my new pillar.
You made saving me a daily routine, and I clung to you like a lifeline.
Did you know? Blue whales are mammals. Though they live in the ocean, they never evolved gills. They must surface to breathe to continue roaming the vast, boundless seas.
I think perhaps I am like a blue whale. Whenever I sink into the ocean of death, you drag me back to the surface.
Is this help? Or is it torment? I can no longer tell.
I only know that you gave me an extra six and a half years to live.
Wishing you peace in spring, wellness in summer, tranquility in autumn, and joy in winter.
Respectfully,
Wang Shuo