“No, nothing like that. Probably picked it up from someone at the office.”
I didn't think much of it.
The client was pushing harder and harder for drafts. A developer wanted a full master plan for a villa district, fifteen-day turnaround, three hundred thousand.
I took it.
Fifteen days. Three hundred thousand.
That meant at least sixteen hours a day at my desk.
I used a week of annual leave and locked myself in the study.
Eustace brought meals every day, left them outside the door, knocked twice, and walked away.
Sometimes I heard him on the phone in the hallway, voice low, too soft to make out the words, but the tone was easy. Smiling.
The same kind of smile he'd had when I first knew him.
Light. Happy. Unburdened.
He hadn't smiled like that in front of me in a long time.
Day seven.
Past midnight.
I stared at the dense web of lines on the screen, eyes so dry they felt scraped raw with sandpaper.
Then my throat went hot and metallic all at once.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and coughed.
My palm came away red.
Blood.
I stared at it for a few seconds, blank.
The first thought in my head wasn't “What's wrong with me” but “Eight days left. Can't fall behind.”
I pulled a tissue, wiped my hand clean, and kept drawing.
Two more hours. The blood came again.
More this time. It splattered across the keyboard and seeped into the gaps between the keys.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for a while.
My heart was hammering, so fast it felt like it would punch straight through my throat.
I picked up my phone, meaning to message Eustace.
In the chat window, a text from him an hour ago：“Hey, I'll be back late tonight. Something came up at the office.”
I didn't think about it. Typed two words：“Okay.” Went back to drawing.
The next morning I collapsed on the bathroom floor.
By the time Eustace came home I was already conscious, crouched on the tiles scrubbing at the bloodstains.
He rushed over and caught my arm, his face white as paper.
“What happened to you?”
“It's nothing. Just my gums bleeding—I've been run down.”
He didn't believe me. But he didn't ask again.
“I brought you congee. Eat, then rest for a bit. Stop drawing.”
It was century egg and lean pork congee. I got two spoonfuls down before my stomach heaved and all of it came back up.
Eustace watched me retch, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back.
I heard his phone ring. He glanced at the screen and silenced it.
It rang again. He silenced it again.
The third time, he picked up and stepped out onto the balcony, voice pressed low.
“Didn't I say I'm at home……Yeah, I'll come later……Don't start.”
I'll come later.
Where?
To see who?
I didn't ask.
Because I was afraid to.
Afraid to hear the answer.
Afraid the worst answer was the real one.
Day fifteen.
I sent the final version of the plan to the client.
When I lifted my hand off the mouse, my whole arm was numb.
I stared at the screen and waited for a reply.
Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.
A message came through：“Plan received. Review meeting tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
If it passed review, the three hundred thousand was mine.
Add the hundred-odd thousand I'd saved, sell the little apartment my mother left me, scrape everything together, and maybe it would be enough.
I called my mother.
“Mom, I want to sell the old apartment.”
“Sell the apartment? What's happened?”
“Nothing's happened. I just……want to trade up to something bigger.”
My mother was quiet for a long time.
“Gayle, don't lie to your mother. You don't sound right.”
“Just a cold.”
“……All right. I'll go list it with the agency tomorrow.”
