sean's art drawer

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh sheets. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor had become a kind of background hum, steady and patient.

“Good afternoon, Xiao Su.” Nurse Li’s voice came with a smile–gentle, practiced, and warmly familiar. “You’re awake just in time. Let’s change your IV before I fetch your meal, alright?”

She moved efficiently, setting her tray by the bedside. Her hands were sure as she changed the IV line and adjusted the gauze on his arm. After ten years, his body still needed careful tending. His muscles had thinned, his fingers were slow to respond, but his eyes– sharp, bright, and alive–followed every movement with quiet attention.

On his lap rested a red photo album, its edges worn soft from use. Nurse Li’s gaze caught on it, and her smile deepened.

“Oh, did Nurse Jiang give you that?” she asked, making conversation as she worked. “Your sister and your friend, they were so devoted. In all my years caring for you, I’ve never seen such dedication. They came often, talking to you, telling stories, bringing pictures of how they’d been. They said they wanted you to see everything when you woke up.”

Her tone was fond, the way one might speak about a small miracle they’d quietly witnessed over time.

His lips curved faintly. He traced a finger over one of the photos–a snapshot of three teenagers crowded into a tiny internet café booth. A grinning girl flashed a peace sign; he was caught mid-laugh; behind them stood a black-haired boy, smirking like he owned the world.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “They would.”

He remembered that smirk, the one that could make victory sound like a joke and defeat feel like a challenge.

When Nurse Li finished tidying up, she started for the door, then stopped suddenly as if recalling something. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She turned back, switching on the television mounted on the wall in front of his bed. “Nurse Jiang said you’d want to see this. Some sort of competition, I think?”

The screen brightened–a stage, flashing lights, waves of red and gold confetti falling like rain. Cheers filled the room, tiny through the speakers but reached him all the same.

And then, the camera panned.

A group stood there in matching red, white, and black jackets, a golden wings emblem gleaming under spotlights. At their center was a man holding a trophy aloft, his smile full of pride and undoubtly of joy. His black hair gleamed under the lights, his posture easy yet commanding.

Ye Xiu.

Even after ten years, there was no mistaking him.

“Oh!” Nurse Li exclaimed behind him. “Isn’t that your friend? And your sister too–look! She’s right there beside him!”

But he barely heard her.

His gaze stayed fixed on the figure at the center of the screen. For a long moment, everything else fell away–the hospital, the machines, the years between then and now. It was just Ye Xiu, holding that trophy, surrounded by teammates crowding him in laughter and fierce, joyful affection.

Something warm and aching bloomed in his chest. His throat tightened, eyes burning with unshed tears he hadn’t known were still possible.

Ye Xiu had done it.

He really did it.

He’s laughing, genuinely laughing, and for a moment, it’s like the years between them collapse. Like he's right there again, at his side, planning their next match, shouting tactics into the headset, dreaming about what they would do when they win their first championship.

Now Ye Xiu stood there, the gold championship trophy held higher as his teammates swarmed him–laughing, shouting, crying, half-tackling him in a chaotic hug. And just behind them, a flash of long brown hair, her smile as bright as he remembered.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached toward the screen, fingers hovering just short of touching it. His lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“Happy birthday to me, huh?” he whispered, something fragile between joy and regret, encompassed by a surging wave of pride.