The drunkard's emotions collapsed, and he frantically hung up the phone, cutting off Qing Yi's increasingly anxious voice.
He held onto the phone tightly, clutching his head, curling up his body, striving to suppress the tears that were about to overflow.
The bag of medicine lay discarded at his feet.
The doctors and nurses passing by occasionally, the background behind him, and the scent of disinfectant pervading the air all exacerbated his sorrow.
Such a scene was heartbreaking to behold.
Even people passing by him could sense his despair, helplessness, and fear.
The phone rang repeatedly, vibrating incessantly in his hand, making it impossible for him to calm his emotions at that moment.
He didn't know when the calls stopped, nor when or how he left the hospital. He didn't take the bag of medicine, which remained discarded on the steps, uncertain whether he forgot or simply didn't want it.
And the lab reports ended up in the trash can.
