He Is as Cold as Falling Snow

The fifth year after I divorced Fu Sihan.

We ran into each other in the hospital emergency corridor.

He was carrying his adopted daughter, who had a high fever. Sweat covered his face, and his shirt was stained with the child's vomit. He looked a complete mess.

I was wearing my white coat as a specially appointed expert, with delicate makeup, on my way to pick up my fiance after work.

As we passed, he instinctively grabbed my wrist tightly.

His voice was hoarse, urgent, and full of entitlement.

"A Sheng, do you still have any of the fever medicine you carry around? Yueyue feels awful..."

I stopped.

Calmly, I brushed his hand away.

Then I took an alcohol wipe from my bag and slowly cleaned the wrist he'd just touched, right in front of him.

Once, twice.

When I was done, I tossed the wipe into the trash and pointed toward the registration desk at the end of the corridor.

"Dr. Fu, this is a hospital. You get medicine from the pharmacy."

"Besides, I don't carry medicine around anymore."

"Because the man who always made my heart race with worry whenever he got sick, and gave me the silent treatment whenever things didn't go his way, is no longer my husband."