She hadn’t expected Song Lang to visit her alone after his return. He arrived carrying a basket of flowers and had even brought her a serving of pork and century egg congee. She treated him as she did her other colleagues, politely peeling fruit to serve him. The apple peel spiraled into a thin, continuous ribbon under her knife, while both of them remained silent. Her distant attitude seemed to make him lose interest as well.
After he left, she opened the congee. Its aroma was faintly bitter. She had never liked savory congee, and he had probably long forgotten that.
She set the congee aside.
The nurse came in to check her temperature and noticed the congee, exclaiming, “Oh, pork and century egg congee! This is great for the stomach—you should eat more of it to help your recovery.”
For a moment, Ying Jun felt inexplicably shaken. She recalled that night of overtime, under the harsh fluorescent lights, when his long fingers had reached into the takeout bag and chosen that exact bowl of congee for her. He must have remembered her chronic stomach pain from university, even if he knew she didn’t enjoy eating it.
She slowly ate the congee, bite by bite. Though it was nearly cold, its bitterness seemed less sharp.
When she returned to work, her first task was attending a meeting with the Sponsor. Vivian hugged her laptop and groaned, “I’d rather work on two audit projects than deal with the Sponsor.”
Song Lang said nothing, but Ying Jun noticed he looked thinner and more tired. During her absence, he had led the entire team through countless obstacles and challenges. By the end of the project, everyone was teetering on the brink of hysteria, desperate for the Sponsor to sign off so they could finally rid themselves of this burdensome task.
At some point, eating congee during late-night overtime had become a tradition. As usual, someone called for takeout. Vivian brought over a bowl of Eight-Treasure Congee and handed it to Ying Jun. “Senior Fang, try this.”
Before Ying Jun could respond, Song Lang’s voice came from behind her: “I want the Eight-Treasure Congee. Give that to me.”
Vivian immediately prioritized Song Lang over her, handing the bowl of congee to him without hesitation. Ying Jun said nothing, glancing at her screen where Song Lang’s MSN avatar was grayed out. His status message was cryptic: “Shanghai is already in summer.”
Shanghai is already in summer?
The seasons changed, but inside the office building, the temperature was perpetually controlled at 23°C by central air conditioning. The bright fluorescent lights overhead blurred the distinction between day and night. Ying Jun always wore skirts with a light cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders. She had long lost track of what season it was outside.
She turned to glance at Song Lang, who was only a few steps away, engrossed in a phone call. The spoons from this congee shop were particularly unique—not the usual disposable plastic ones, but carefully carved bamboo spoons, polished to a smooth finish, cool to the touch when held.
Back in their university days, he would often wait for her at the sports field. She loved Eight-Treasure Congee from a shop just outside the west gate. He would bring it to her in a lunchbox, running through the cold winter air so she could eat it while it was still warm. At that time, they had a pair of bamboo spoons, identical except for the little pandas painted on the handles—souvenirs they had bought together during a summer trip to Mount Qingcheng.
She thought for a moment, then changed her own MSN status to: “Century egg congee is actually pretty good.”
Song Lang’s status remained offline, but not long after, his status message changed to: “Sweet congee isn’t good for stomach problems.”
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