Not Me
Inside the consultation room, the boy clutched his head tightly with both hands, trembling all over. His loud, unrestrained sobs filled the room, making anyone present ache with sympathy.
Dr. Liu from psychiatry and the psychologist stood across from him, speaking gently to soothe the boy. Only when a loud bang echoed from the door did they look up.
“What’s going on?!” Su Mingyu immediately rushed forward.
“He might have remembered something… he’s having a bit of a breakdown,” Dr. Liu said, sweat forming on his forehead. “But honestly, such a strong reaction was beyond what we expected.”
Gu Yilan approached Su Zesui’s side and reached out his hand.
He had thought the boy, caught in such an emotional storm, would be afraid of outside attention, maybe even lash out or harm himself. So he moved cautiously.
To his surprise, the moment he reached out, Su Zesui didn’t hesitate—he threw himself into Gu Yilan’s arms, clutching him and sobbing.
“Ah? Did he remember something?”
Su Mingyu, flustered, took the record from the psychologist—
Q: How are you feeling now? Any changes in your emotions?
A: I’m okay. (Note: voice trembling, seems fearful of others)
Q: In the past few days, have you had any thoughts or actions of self-harm?
A: No.
Q: Have you had difficulty concentrating or memory issues?
A: No.
. . . . .
The earlier questions were standard psychological and psychiatric assessments, and Su Zesui had answered obediently.
But when the questions became more in-depth—like “Have you been undergoing consistent therapy? How effective has it been?”—the boy rarely answered. The record simply said, “Patient did not speak.”
Suddenly, his emotional breakdown left the notes incomplete at the last question:
Q: Have you experienced confusion between reality and memory?
Su Mingyu read the record several times but saw nothing suspicious.
He couldn’t understand what his brother had remembered that could make him cry with such despair.
Considering how sensitive psychologically fragile patients are to ambient temperature, the room’s air conditioning wasn’t set too cold. Even so, Su Mingyu was sweating nervously.
“Given his current state, do you recommend restoring his memory?” Gu Yilan asked.
Compared with Su Mingyu, whose face was full of guilt and worry, Gu Yilan remained calm. After soothing the boy briefly, he asked the key question in a steady voice.
Su Mingyu looked at him and noticed the man’s fingers were pale and knuckled, his lips thin and colorless.
“His physical recovery is good now, so we generally recommend restoring memory,” the doctor said. “Avoidance only works temporarily. True recovery requires him to face it himself. The process may be painful, but the outcome should be positive.”
“What can we do to help him?” Su Mingyu asked.
“Expose him to familiar things to stimulate memory,” the doctor said. “And give him plenty of care and attention in daily life.”
Su Mingyu looked at his brother trembling in Gu Yilan’s arms, his eyes reddening. “Okay,” he said.
“Of course, the worst thing for him is bottling up his feelings. It’s best to communicate often, gently guiding him to express what he remembers and how he feels.”
. . . . .
While Su Mingyu spoke with the doctor, Gu Yilan sat nearby, quietly accompanying Su Zesui.
The boy sat on his lap, silent, tears streaming endlessly. His sobs would fade almost to nothing, only to swell again, over and over, soaking the front of Gu Yilan’s clothes.
Gu Yilan pressed his lips tightly, one hand rubbing the back of the boy’s head, the other patting his stiff back. “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he murmured.
The doctor was about to step forward to check on the boy again.
But as soon as the footsteps sounded, Su Zesui sensed it and clutched Gu Yilan tightly, choking out: “N-no…”
Gu Yilan could feel that Su Zesui’s social anxiety, which had only just begun to improve, had worsened—worse even than the first time he had met the boy.
For reasons none of them understood.
“What’s wrong?” Su Mingyu crouched beside his brother. “I’ll try not to go out so much from now on. I’ll stay home with you, okay?”
In the past, Su Zesui would have definitely let out a haughty little “hmph” and declared that he was moving into Mr. Gu’s house tonight. But now, it was as if he hadn’t even heard the remark. He didn’t argue, didn’t respond—only buried himself deeper into Gu Yilan’s arms.
Gu Yilan steadied the restless boy who was about to slip out of his hold, then looked up at Su Mingyu.
“It’s a bit serious,” he said.
Su Mingyu sighed, stood up, and murmured, “Whatever it is he remembered… in the end, it’s still my fault.”
He wanted to drop everything and devote all his time and energy to his younger brother, to make up for what he’d done. But seeing how deeply his brother clung to the man, he couldn’t help thinking—maybe letting go was actually the best thing for him.
Turning to Gu Yilan, Su Mingyu said apologetically, “You probably heard what the doctor said just now. For the time being, I’ll have to trouble you. If you need anything, contact me anytime.”
Gu Yilan lowered his gaze to the tear-streaked boy in his arms. After studying him for a long moment, he asked hoarsely, “Whatever you remembered… can you tell me?”
Su Zesui heard him but only shook his head hard, refusing to speak.
Su Mingyu, baffled, went over his brother’s past misfortunes again and again in his mind. His chest ached, but he had to admit—the thing most likely to shatter his brother’s composure was the origin of the scars on his arm.
He had arrived cheerful and laughing, but now Su Zesui couldn’t even walk properly. At the sound of footsteps nearby, he froze like a startled bird, shuddering involuntarily—a pitiful sight.
In the car, Su Zesui curled up in Gu Yilan’s arms in the back seat.
Although Gu Yilan barely spoke, Su Mingyu felt he might be even more unsettled than himself—his presence was soft yet heavy, full of contradictions, as if teetering on the edge of losing control, so unlike his usual composed self.
When they arrived home, Su Mingyu helped pack his brother’s things.
Luckily, Su Zesui hadn’t brought much, so it didn’t take long and required little communication.
“Feeling dizzy?” Gu Yilan asked the boy, who clung to him like a pendant, unwilling to let go for even a second.
Su Zesui nodded. He’d cried himself half out of breath.
“Anywhere else uncomfortable? Tell me,” Gu Yilan said gently.
Su Zesui touched his forehead, then poked at his chest, and murmured vaguely, “It’s over.”
Gu Yilan froze, lowering his voice. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m going to fly away,” Su Zesui said, on the verge of tears again.
Gu Yilan knew some mental illnesses could make people feel as if their soul was leaving their body—bipolar disorder, for instance.
He didn’t want to tear open old wounds, but he also knew that bottling it up could make things worse. So he asked, “Did you think of something bad?”
Su Zesui went silent again.
“If someone’s bullying you, I’ll stand up for you.”
Gu Yilan’s voice was calm and steady, coaxing without being forceful. Unlike Su Mingyu’s agitated tone, his deep, mellow voice was more reassuring than most therapists could manage.
But Su Zesui only cried quietly, shoulders trembling with suppressed grievance, refusing to say a word.
Seeing some old plush toys still on the sofa, Su Mingyu picked a few of the cutest ones and held them up. “Do you want to take these with you?”
They were soft, fluffy toys Su Zesui had bought as a child—innocent-looking enough to melt anyone’s heart, and perfect for sparking memories he could take along.
But Su Zesui only glanced at them before his face twisted in fear. “N-no… I don’t like them.”
Puzzled, Su Mingyu quickly set the toys back on the sofa. “That’s fine. We can buy you new ones later.”
Su Zesui mumbled a muffled “Mm.”
Once the packing was done, Su Mingyu gave a few more instructions but still felt uneasy. He decided to drive them himself, bringing his koala-like brother—clinging to Gu Yilan—to the man’s front door.
The butler was already waiting, and as soon as Gu Yilan’s car pulled up, he hurried over to take the luggage.
Gu Yilan carried the boy straight to the master bedroom and set him down on the soft, deep-blue bed.
The familiar, stranger-free environment—the ocean-themed decorations, the cheerful souvenirs, and even the silly, round-faced bookmark on the nightstand—all helped loosen the tension in Su Zesui’s body.
He burrowed under the thin quilt, wrapping himself up like a little dumpling, and stared at Gu Yilan with wide, glossy black eyes that didn’t blink.
“Your brother has work to do. What about you—planning to do some homework for a while, or take a nap?”
Su Zesui thought for a moment. “Watch you.”
Gu Yilan inclined his head slightly, but instead of reaching for the pile of documents on his desk, he tossed a tablet onto the bed and sat on his side, watching as the boy slowly scooted closer.
“Charity, high school student, report filing…” Su Zesui read aloud from the tablet in his nasal, tear-thickened voice. Then he commented, “Good person.”
Gu Yilan chuckled silently. “Charity can have many purposes. One, it builds a positive image for a business and its owner. Two, it’s a form of indirect investment. Students I’ve sponsored in the past—when they succeed, they’re likely to choose my company first. It’s a mutually beneficial exchange.”
“Most of the time, I’m not such a good businessman,” he added, glancing at the boy beside him. “My kindness is limited—and only for certain people.”
Su Zesui didn’t understand and said, “Being kind means you’re a good person too.”
Gu Yilan chuckled but didn’t explain, instead continuing to flip through the report on impoverished students.
For as long as Gu Yilan read, Su Zesui kept watching along with him.
Then suddenly, Gu Yilan felt a chill against his arm. Turning his head, he saw the boy’s reddened eyes and the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
A quick glance at the tablet’s screen revealed the profile of a poor high school student—
An orphan born in a welfare home, living in poverty, born with a disability, and, most importantly… subjected to repeated bullying at school.
Closing the tablet and steadying his own emotions, Gu Yilan didn’t ask why the boy was crying. Instead, he said, “My leg’s hurting a bit. Want to help me put on some medicine?”
Su Zesui was momentarily stunned mid-cry, then nodded firmly. “Okay.”
Inside the medical kit, aside from disinfectant and bandages, all of Gu Yilan’s medicines were custom-made—sleek silver-grey tubes without any logos—nothing that would trigger Su Zesui’s aversion to seeing ointment.
Without hesitation, Gu Yilan neatly took off his trousers.
His long legs, usually hidden under fabric, had always given an impression of calm and unhurried movement. Now, bare in the open air, they revealed defined, springy muscle lines—radiating quiet strength, even a hint of intimidation—
If one ignored the bandages wrapped around the base of his thigh.
After a day of rushing about, plus the boy’s earlier struggles in his arms, the innermost white bandage had been stained with alarming streaks of red.
But Gu Yilan acted as if he didn’t feel any pain, smoothly tearing away the blood-crusted bandage. Fresh droplets welled from the already deep gashes.
Even though Su Zesui had braced himself mentally, the sight still hit too hard. He froze, breath held.
Fumbling for clean bandages, he pressed them to the man’s wound, momentarily forgetting his tears.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered.
It was his fault—he had insisted Mr. Gu carry him, and now the injury had gotten worse.
“It’s fine.” Gu Yilan, noting the boy’s expression, replied evenly, for once accepting the apology.
The boy clearly had prepared himself—though his movements were stiff and reluctant, he wasn’t at a loss for what to do.
The only problem was the ointment’s sting.
Gu Yilan let out a quiet hiss, the muscle in his thigh tightening with a faint tremor.
Su Zesui immediately stopped. “Does it hurt?”
Gu Yilan didn’t bring up that whole “it hurts, but it also feels good” line of his again. Instead, he said, “It hurts. Probably feels about the same as when you got injured before—sharp pain on the surface, with a deeper ache that seeps into the muscles.”
“I… got hurt?” Su Zesui asked.
The confusion in his eyes was too genuine to fake. A faint unease stirred in Gu Yilan, but he kept his tone casual. “Didn’t you tell me before that you injured your arm?”
Su Zesui stood frozen for a few seconds before lifting his sleeve to look at the scar on his arm. Hesitant, he said, “I forgot. Maybe it didn’t hurt much. Maybe… they didn’t mean it.”
When Gu Yilan’s brows knitted tighter, the boy lowered his sleeve and murmured, “It’s ugly.”
“It’s not ugly.” Gu Yilan rubbed the old, long-healed scar and asked softly, “Still don’t remember?”
Su Zesui dropped his gaze, not answering. Instead, he fiddled with the ointment, intent on continuing the treatment—an obvious attempt to change the subject.
His reaction was strange—he seemed to truly not remember, yet was still upset, resisting the conversation for reasons unknown.
Gu Yilan let it go.
Throughout the rest of the process, he kept an eye on the boy but gained no new clues.
When the fresh white bandage was secured, Su Zesui retreated into the blanket, curling himself into a silkworm cocoon, lying on his side with his back to him—no longer interested in watching him work.
Glancing at the withdrawn boy, Gu Yilan absently rubbed the callus on his fingertip, a faint shadow of red gloom settling in his eyes.
Before he knew it, he had opened his phone and tapped into an old surveillance website.
It was a reflex he’d never quite shaken since cutting ties with his parents.
Even though he had long since shut down both sides’ surveillance feeds permanently, whenever he felt powerless or irritable, his body would instinctively try to pull up that page—as if regaining control by force.
He exhaled slowly, shut the page, and turned toward the boy who was pretending to sleep. “When you make it to the CPhO finals, let’s get a new house, alright?”
Su Zesui’s body stiffened.
Through Brother Gong Chuang, he had learned that this villa looked exactly like Mr. Gu’s parents’ home—a product of their power struggle and a lifelong psychological shadow.
For the first time, thanks to the courage of those around him, something in his heart wavered.
He heard Gu Yilan add, “They want me to meet someone one last time. I agreed. After that, this whole thing will be settled. They won’t trouble us anymore. Once the external threats are gone, only the internal ones remain.”
Still not turning over, Su Zesui finally replied, “Meeting them… will it be dangerous?”
Gu Yilan was silent for a while before finally saying, “There are some risks I’ve taken on myself. That way, you’ll have far fewer worries.”
Su Zesui’s nose stung, and he pulled the thin blanket over his head. Then, pressing against it, he sat up facing Gu Yilan. “Why… why are you so good to me?”
Gu Yilan lifted the blanket covering the boy’s face and was met with a pair of reddened eyes.
He froze for a moment, his lips parting and closing without a sound. It was a long time before he finally said, “Because I like you.”
The moment his words fell, Su Zesui avoided the injury on his leg and dove straight into his arms.
Because of the boy’s sudden movement, the snow-white blanket hung suspended in mid-air for a second before slowly settling back over his thin frame. It trembled faintly with the same rhythm as the boy’s shivering.
Before Gu Yilan could speak again, he heard the boy’s voice—shaky and frightened in a way he’d never heard before. “If… if I weren’t me, would you still like me?”