Who are you?
The sharp sound of heels echoed through the hospital corridor, striking against the polished floor in hurried, uneven beats.
“Doctor, please!”
The desperate voice cut through the usual evening noise of nurses exchanging reports, carts rolling between rooms, and monitors beeping steadily behind half-closed doors.
Hui Ying looked up immediately.
She had been preparing to leave after another exhausting shift, her white coat already unbuttoned and her bag resting over one shoulder. At twenty-seven, she had grown accustomed to long hours, skipped meals, and the dull ache that settled into her body after spending most of the day moving from one patient to another.
Still, the moment she heard someone calling for help, exhaustion became secondary.
She turned toward the voice and hurried down the corridor.
It was almost instinctive now.
Years of training had made her capable, calm, and dependable. People trusted her because she rarely hesitated when something needed to be done.
The ironic part was that becoming a doctor had never truly been her dream.
Hui Ying had studied medicine because it was what her parents wanted.
They had always spoken proudly about the future they imagined for her.
A respected profession.
A successful career.
A stable life.
And for years, Hui Ying had followed that path because making them happy had seemed more important than asking herself what she actually wanted.
She had been a good daughter.
A good student.
A responsible adult.
She had checked every box placed in front of her.
But somewhere along the way, she had realized something uncomfortable.
Living only to satisfy other people was exhausting.
And no matter how much praise she received, it never completely filled the strange emptiness inside her.
That didn’t mean she hated medicine.
Over time, Hui Ying had learned to appreciate it. There were days when helping someone recover genuinely made her happy. There were patients she remembered long after they had left the hospital, moments of gratitude that made the sleepless nights feel worthwhile.
Even so, she knew one thing with certainty.
If she could begin her life again, she would choose for herself.
Not for her parents.
Not for anyone else.
For herself.
By the time the hospital finally quieted enough for her to leave, Hui Ying felt as though she could sleep for an entire day.
She stepped outside and breathed in the cool evening air.
“Finally.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
She still had plenty to do.
Her apartment was filled with boxes because she would be moving soon, and she had promised herself she would finish packing before her flight the following morning.
It was already late when she arrived home.
Hui Ying changed into comfortable clothes, tied her hair back, ordered something simple to eat, and stared at the collection of half-filled boxes scattered across the living room.
For several seconds, she seriously considered ignoring them.
Then she sighed.
“If I leave this for tomorrow, I’m going to regret it.”
She began packing.
Clothes went into one box.
Documents into another.
Old photographs were placed carefully inside envelopes.
Books were sorted into piles—keep, donate, return.
Hours passed before Hui Ying reached the bottom of an old storage box and froze.
There, beneath a stack of notebooks, was a familiar book.
She stared at it.
The cover was slightly worn now, the corners bent from years of being handled.
Among Love and Thorns.
Hui Ying slowly picked it up.
“Oh my God.”
A smile immediately appeared on her face.
She hadn’t seen the book in years.
It belonged to her younger sister, who had been completely obsessed with it when they were teenagers. Hui Ying had originally started reading it only because her sister wouldn’t stop talking about the characters.
Somehow, she had ended up becoming even more invested.
Or, more accurately, invested in one particular character.
Jun Hao.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the book.
The pages smelled faintly of old paper.
Memories returned almost instantly.
Long nights spent reading beneath her blanket.
Arguments with her sister about the characters.
Complaints about the heroine.
And, of course, Jun Hao.
Hui Ying smiled to herself.
“This was my favorite book when I was younger.”
She flipped through several pages.
“Well… mostly because of Jun Hao.”
Her smile softened.
Even after all these years, she remembered his story clearly.
Jun Hao had been adopted into a wealthy family after losing his biological parents. From the outside, his life looked privileged. He attended elite schools, wore expensive clothes, and lived in a beautiful house.
But inside that house, things were different.
His adoptive mother treated him cruelly.
Nothing he did was ever good enough.
He learned early that affection usually came with conditions, and that kindness could disappear the moment he disappointed someone.
Because of that, Jun Hao had grown into someone quiet and guarded.
He rarely trusted anyone.
And yet, beneath that cold exterior, he desperately wanted to be loved.
That was probably why Hui Ying had liked him so much.
“He went through so much,” she murmured.
She remembered thinking the same thing as a teenager.
At least the story had technically given him a happy ending.
Technically.
Hui Ying continued reading until she reached the heroine’s introduction.
Her pleasant nostalgia vanished immediately.
Her expression flattened.
“…And my opinion about her hasn’t changed at all.”
Fen Fang.
The heroine.
Hui Ying stared at the page with growing irritation.
“This woman never deserved Jun Hao.”
The story wanted readers to believe that everything began because Fen Fang had once defended him.
It had happened during school.
A group of students had mocked Jun Hao, and Fen Fang had spoken up.
Just once.
A simple act of kindness.
But for Jun Hao, who had spent most of his life starved of genuine affection, that moment had meant everything.
From that point forward, he became fiercely loyal to her.
He protected her throughout high school.
Then college.
Whenever Fen Fang had a problem, Jun Hao appeared.
Whenever she cried, he helped her.
Whenever someone hurt her, he defended her.
The story framed it as devotion.
Hui Ying had always seen it differently.
Fen Fang hadn’t defended him because she understood him.
She had done it because it was convenient at the time.
And afterward?
She barely gave him anything in return.
“She cries, asks for help, and somehow everyone thinks she’s wonderful,” Hui Ying muttered.
She turned another page.
Her irritation only grew.
Jun Hao mistook the smallest crumbs of kindness for love because he had never learned what real affection looked like.
And Fen Fang benefited from it.
Eventually, he married her.
The novel called it a happy ending.
Hui Ying called it depressing.
Fen Fang hadn’t truly loved him.
She had simply accepted him after realizing he was successful, loyal, and willing to give her everything.
Jun Hao remained devoted to her because he believed having her beside him was better than being alone.
“Poor Jun Hao.”
Hui Ying leaned back against the couch and closed the book.
“He deserved so much better.”
She had no desire to finish rereading it.
She already remembered the ending.
Jun Hao married Fen Fang.
Fen Fang continued relying on him whenever it benefited her.
And Jun Hao remained beside her, never realizing that the relationship he treasured so much was built almost entirely on his desperation to be needed.
Hui Ying looked down at the book.
“If I were there…”
She stopped.
Then laughed quietly at herself.
“What am I even saying?”
It was fictional.
Jun Hao wasn’t real.
Still, teenage Hui Ying had spent countless hours imagining how differently things could have gone if someone had actually cared for him before Fen Fang entered his life.
Someone who didn’t need him to rescue them.
Someone who wouldn’t manipulate his loyalty.
Someone who could simply stand beside him.
Hui Ying shook her head and placed the book into her travel bag.
She was visiting her family tomorrow anyway.
She could return it to her sister.
After finishing the last few boxes, Hui Ying showered and collapsed into bed.
Only a few hours later, her alarm rang.
The following morning passed in a blur.
Airport.
Security.
Coffee.
Boarding.
Hui Ying settled into her seat on the plane and leaned back with a tired sigh.
She was looking forward to seeing her family.
The flight was supposed to be routine.
And for most of it, it was.
Hui Ying spent some time sleeping, watched part of a movie, and occasionally looked out through the window at the endless blanket of clouds beneath them.
Then the plane shook.
At first, it was mild.
A few passengers barely reacted.
The seatbelt sign turned on.
Hui Ying adjusted herself in her seat.
Another jolt came.
Stronger this time.
The cabin trembled.
Someone gasped several rows behind her.
Hui Ying gripped the armrest.
She had never enjoyed turbulence, but she reminded herself that it was normal.
Planes encountered turbulence all the time.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing dangerous.
Then the aircraft dropped suddenly.
Her stomach lurched.
Several passengers screamed.
Hui Ying’s heartbeat accelerated.
The shaking became violent enough that objects rattled inside the overhead compartments.
A flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, asking everyone to remain seated and keep their seatbelts fastened.
Hui Ying tried to breathe slowly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
But nausea rolled through her stomach.
Her vision began to blur.
She tightened her fingers around the armrest.
This is ridiculous.
She was a doctor.
She understood what panic could do to the body.
She knew the symptoms.
That knowledge did absolutely nothing to calm her.
Another violent jolt shook the cabin.
Hui Ying squeezed her eyes shut.
I hope this isn’t the end.
That was her final thought.
Everything went black.
