Jiang Yuanchuan often coughed late at night.
Sometimes he would press his hand tightly against his mouth, afraid to wake Lin Zhilan who slept beside him.
Under the pale moonlight, he would lower his head and see blood staining his palm, yet he still forced a smile.
The doctor had told him, "You must start treatment immediately."
But he merely smiled faintly, "Let it drag on as long as it can."
He didn't want her to worry.
At the very least, he wanted her to remember him as the healthy young man who brought her stars and poems.
So he learned to hide it. He tucked the medicine into his pocket, tore up the medical records, and began secretly writing a diary.
"Zhilan, your smile today was like spring."
"Zhilan, I'm afraid one day you'll be alone."
"Zhilan, if I'm gone, please be happy."
Lin Zhilan vaguely sensed something was wrong.
But whenever she asked, Jiang Yuanchuan only smiled, "I'm fine, just tired from work."
His smile was too tender, and it deceived her heart easily.