Chapter : 12 "Where Guilt Begin's to Bloom"
Bai Qi's steps were no longer steady—they were rushing.
Pounding the ground. Faster. Then faster.
His arms curled tightly around Shu Yao's legs and back as he carried him,
the boy's head lolling faintly against his shoulder,
breath ghosting against his collarbone in sharp, fragile bursts.
"Shu Yao," he whispered once.
Then louder.
"Shu Yao."
But there was no reply.
Just the heat. The unbearable heat of a boy burning through fever.
His skin felt like fire under Bai Qi's hands—his fingers limp now, not even trying to hold on.
The streets blurred past him.
The hospital lights were ahead. Too far. Too slow.
His chest ached—not from the running, not from the weight—
but from the thought that Shu Yao had slipped this far without anyone noticing.
Without anyone helping.
And now he might be too late.
No.
He wouldn't let it happen.
His grip tightened. His pace quickened.
The people on the sidewalk moved aside as he passed—faces turning, words unheard.
Inside his head, the only thing echoing was Shu Yao's breath.
Unsteady.
Shallow.
Painful.
Like every inhale was a thread being pulled tighter.
Bai Qi could feel the tremble in the boy's limbs.
The sweat soaking into his school uniform.
The sharp, uneven beats of a heart that sounded wrong—too fast, too faint.
He reached the front steps of the hospital.
Didn't slow.
Just shoved the doors open with one shoulder,
voice low and desperate as he crossed the threshold—
"I need help—he's burning—he's not breathing right—someone—!"
Nurses turned.
One rushed forward.
Bai Qi knelt quickly, gently setting Shu Yao onto the stretcher they rolled in.
Hands reluctant to let go.
A nurse touched Shu Yao's forehead and gasped softly.
Too hot. Too dangerous.
"He's seizing," one said.
"Page the doctor—get IV—move now—"
Voices collided around him.
But Bai Qi wasn't hearing them anymore.
He stood there, hands still suspended in the air like Shu Yao was still in them.
Still warm. Still breathing.
His own breath wouldn't steady.
And all he could think was—
"Please, not like this."
Not like this, with doors between them.
Not like this, without the chance to say sorry.
Without the chance to say—
Anything.
He watched them wheel Shu Yao away,
his pale face vanishing down the corridor.
And for the first time in a long time,
Bai Qi's body—so strong, so sure—
Got hurt.
Like everything inside him had cracked.
And something important had spilled out.
He sat down slowly.
The hallway was too white. Too quiet.
Too much like the inside of a dream where things disappear before you can name them.
Bai Qi leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together.
But they wouldn't stop shaking.
Why were they shaking?
He tried to think of Qing Yue—
her laugh, her eyes, her way of rolling them when he teased her.
But it didn't come the same way.
Not now.
Not after what he saw.
Not after that scene.
Shu Yao on the floor.
Sweat clinging to his temple.
Fingers trembling, trying to lift broken porcelain like it was something sacred—
like the bowl was the only thing that mattered, not his body burning from the inside out.
That image wouldn't leave.
It kept replaying—
the way Shu Yao's lips moved when he said "It was expensive…"
the way his forehead gently fell against Qing Yue's shoulder like he finally couldn't pretend anymore.
Bai Qi clenched his jaw.
Why did it hurt like that?
He hadn't done anything wrong.
He was just trying to help.
He was only ever trying to help.
But now he couldn't stop seeing that moment.
Couldn't stop wondering why Shu Yao locked the door.
Why he still tried to clean.
Why he said sorry for a bowl when he was the one falling apart.
There was no reason for the guilt.
No one said it was his fault.
And yet—
It ached in the strangest place.
The kind of ache that didn't belong to Qing Yue.
Not really.
Not anymore.
His fingers moved slowly.
Like even the weight of a phone felt too heavy after everything that had happened.
He unlocked the screen with muscle memory alone.
The light glowed against his face, sharp in the dim hallway.
Notifications blurred at the corners of his vision—he didn't care.
He opened the messages.
Clicked on her name.
Typed.
Paused.
Erased.
Typed again.
" I reached the hospital.
They're checking on him now."
He stared at the words.
So simple. So clean.
Like the truth didn't hurt.
His thumb hovered.
Then sent.
The screen dimmed in his hand.
He didn't add how hot Shu Yao's skin had been.
Didn't say the nurse's face had turned grim.
Didn't mention how Shu Yao hadn't opened his eyes once since the door broke.
Didn't say that he still felt the shape of him in his arms.
Still smelled the scent of faint cologne and cold sweat clinging to his uniform.
Still couldn't understand why the guilt was blooming like a bruise in his chest.
The phone buzzed in his hand.
Once.
Then twice.
A message blinked onto the screen.
From Qing Yue.
" How is he? "
Simple.
Honest.
Laced with worry that stretched beyond the letters.
Bai Qi's eyes lingered on the question.
He didn't answer right away.
Because he didn't know.
He thought about the way Shu Yao had looked in his arms—
burning, fading, crumbling like ash.
He typed.
Paused.
Then slowly, quietly, he replied.
" They haven't said yet.
He's still inside. Still breathing… but it's bad."
His fingers hovered again.
He didn't write how scared he was.
Didn't say he couldn't stop seeing that fragile boy on the floor.
Didn't admit that something inside him cracked open the moment Shu Yao refused to let go of those broken pieces.
He just hit send.
And sat in the silence again.
Time slowed into something shapeless.
The ticking of the hallway clock became louder than breath. Louder than thought. Bai Qi sat still, hands folded, staring at the white walls like they might give him answers.
Then footsteps.
Soft.
Measured.
A white coat brushing past silence.
The doctor.
Bai Qi rose to his feet without a word, the weight in his chest heavier than before. He didn't speak—just waited.
The doctor nodded, calm and worn.
"He's stable now," he said. "But the fever was almost 123°. That's far too high. His body is fragile. He hasn't been sleeping, and there's clear signs of physical exhaustion."
Bai Qi stood there. Still as stone.
Not nodding. Not reacting. Just... absorbing.
Another set of footsteps. A nurse approached gently, holding a clipboard.
"Please fill this out," she said softly.
Bai Qi took it without question. Sat down again. The pen felt colder than it should. He wrote slowly, carefully, like the ink mattered. Like every letter held weight.
When he finished, he stood again, walked over to the doctor, and asked, voice low, "Can I see him now?"
The doctor gave a quiet nod. "Just don't wake him."
"Thank you," Bai Qi whispered, and turned toward the corridor.
The door creaked open on steady hinges.
Inside, it was dim—just enough light to see the pale figure on the bed.
And there he was.
Shu Yao.
Small beneath the white sheets. Still in his school uniform, though the top buttons had come undone, exposing the soft line of his collarbones—delicate and sharp like porcelain. The IV hung beside him, a clear drip sliding into his veins like lifelines. An oxygen mask covered his lips.
He looked like a boy caught between sleep and surrender. A boy who'd been burning too long. A boy abandoned by something gentler than love. Or maybe by love itself.
Bai Qi stepped closer. Slow. Reverent.
His eyes traced every detail—the sweat still clinging to Shu Yao's brow, the faint bruise still dark against his cheek, the trembling in his fingers even now, even asleep.
Why?
Why did it twist something inside him?
Why did it feel like guilt?
He hadn't done anything.
Had he?
He didn't know anymore.
He just stood there, staring at the boy who never asked for help, never let his guard down—until now.
And Bai Qi couldn't look away.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. Once. Then again.
Bai Qi blinked. Pulled himself back. Slowly reached for it, not wanting the sound to stir the boy on the bed.
Father.
He sighed, rubbed his face with one hand, and stepped out of the room with careful steps—closing the door behind him as if afraid the world might seep in.
He answered quietly. "Hello?"
His father's voice came sharp through the line. "Where are you?"
Bai Qi ran a hand through his hair, the motion slow. "At the hospital."
A pause. Then tension. "What happened? Did you get hurt?"
"No," Bai Qi replied, his voice level but tired. "My classmate was sick. I brought him here."
Another silence. Then his father exhaled. "You scared me."
"Sorry."
"What hospital?" the voice came again, brisk. "I'll send the driver to get you."
Bai Qi leaned against the wall. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, humming low. He glanced back at the closed door behind him. The fragile boy still inside.
He hesitated. Then said softly, "West River General."
"All right," his father said. "He'll be there in ten."
Bai Qi didn't argue.
But he didn't move either.
His phone lowered slowly, screen fading to black in his hand.
And still, he stayed right where he was—caught between duty and something unnamed, something quiet, aching, and barely understood.