[Translation] The Story Untold (那个不为人知的故事) by Twentine (周爱华): Chapter 6

 

At that moment, Yang Zhao felt something strange.

She had never properly looked at Chen Mingsheng. Even though she had spoken to him and brought him home to shelter from the rain, she had never really studied his face.

This taxi driver was not unattractive.

By today’s standards of young women, Chen Mingsheng wasn’t exactly handsome. He didn’t have youthful energy, nor those drifting, seductive eyebrows and eyes. At most, he was just… decently proportioned.

But he matched the aesthetic of women like Yang Zhao—women of her age.

Chen Mingsheng had a plain, honest appearance. He wore a neat, short black haircut. His eyes weren’t large, but his features were well-defined. Yang Zhao still remembered how dark and deep his eyes were.

Although he had lost one leg, he didn’t look fragile at all. On the contrary, his body seemed solid—broad chest, wide shoulders, narrow waist. In her mind, Yang Zhao mentally “completed” his missing leg, and was slightly surprised to realize his physique was actually quite good.

His lips were firm. Some people’s lips loosen when they sleep, but not his—even in deep sleep, his lips were tightly closed, with faint nasolabial lines at the corners.

Yang Zhao had once read a physiognomy book that said people with this kind of lip shape tend to be extremely stubborn.

Whether Chen Mingsheng was like that, she didn’t know.

She glanced aside. There lay the prosthetic leg that had almost startled her earlier.

It didn’t look particularly advanced. One of Shen Miao’s clients had also been an amputee—a wealthy American man. She had met him in summer, and he wore shorts without any attempt to hide it. His prosthetic looked highly technological, like something from a sci-fi film, and he walked almost indistinguishably from an able-bodied person.

She vaguely remembered Chen Mingsheng’s gait—it was heavy, clumsy.

A man sitting with his arms folded while asleep still looked unusually upright and composed.

Finally, Yang Zhao’s gaze returned to the coffee table.

On it were a water cup, a medicine box, and her house key.

She thought for a moment and roughly understood what had happened.

She stood up and went to change clothes.

As she passed by, her first thought was—

That five thousand yuan… maybe he doesn’t need to repay it anymore.

She changed into a set of linen long-sleeved clothes and trousers.

When she returned to the living room, she called for a two-person meal delivery while standing on the balcony. She had already recovered from the fever after sweating through the night, though she still felt a bit unwell.

She sat back on the sofa, drank some water, and noticed it was still warm. She wasn’t sure where Chen Mingsheng had gotten hot water from.

While sitting quietly, she thought about this rather trivial question and waited for him to wake up.

This driver… had moved her slightly.

Yang Zhao was a cold woman. In fact, most people in the Yang family were like this—their relationships were clear-cut and simple. Since childhood, apart from elders’ birthdays and New Year’s Eve dinner, she had never attended family gatherings, nor expected to.

Everyone in the Yang family had their own circle. Their lives ran parallel—calm like water, never interfering with each other.

She had once had two boyfriends—one Chinese, one foreigner. They did everything couples in love would do, and then things simply ended. Even now, she could barely remember what they looked like.

Both breakups were attributed to “incompatibility.”

She knew her own personality was cold. She knew it clearly, but had no intention of changing it.

She was always occupied. Her work revolved around old objects filled with stories—complex yet fulfilling. Apart from her younger brother Yang Jintian, her life had almost no ripples.

So the faint emotion stirred by this driver felt unusually real.

While she was sitting there, Chen Mingsheng woke up.

He opened his eyes and paused when he saw her, as if it took him a moment to process. Then he sat up and rubbed his brow.

“Sorry, I fell asleep.”

His voice was low and husky from sleep.

Yang Zhao looked at him. “My name is Yang Zhao.”

He was startled, unsure why she suddenly introduced herself. After a pause, he said, “Hello, Miss Yang.” Then added, “My name is Chen Mingsheng.”

She nodded and glanced at the medicine box.

“Did you buy this?”

He nodded. “Yes. You had a fever last night. I used your key to go out and buy medicine. I left the key on the table.”

He looked again—there was no key.

“Never mind,” Yang Zhao said. “I put it away.”

He paused. “I was in a hurry and went through your pocket. Sorry.”

Her tone earlier had sounded slightly like blame; both of them realized it.

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Thank you for helping me buy the medicine.”

He didn’t know how to respond and simply said, “You’re welcome.”

Then silence fell between them.

Chen Mingsheng hesitated, thinking about putting on his prosthetic and leaving, but the woman’s gaze made it hard for him to move. Putting it on required rolling up his pants, and he wasn’t comfortable exposing his residual limb in front of her.

After a moment, he said, “Miss Yang, I should go.”

“You haven’t eaten, right?” she said. “I ordered takeout. It’ll arrive soon. Eat before you leave.”

He hadn’t expected that she had ordered food while he was asleep. He shook his head. “No need. I’ll eat back home.”

She replied, “But I already ordered it. I can’t finish it alone—it’d be wasteful.”

“…”

He wanted to refuse again, but seeing her firm expression, he gave up. “Alright then. Sorry to trouble you.”

She didn’t respond. Silence returned.

But it didn’t feel awkward. He could tell she wasn’t talkative either.

She glanced at the water cup. “Where did you get the hot water?”

He remembered. “I couldn’t find any water, so I boiled it. I used one of your new pots.”

She went quiet.

He added quickly, “Sorry, I didn’t ask permission—”

“I have a pot?”

“Huh?”

She looked at him, confused. “I have a pot? I didn’t know.”

He found her a bit unpredictable. “Yes. An unused one. In the lowest kitchen cabinet. A small milk pot, Supror brand, stainless steel.”

She thought for a moment. Then nodded slightly. “Oh… that was a free gift when I bought kitchenware.”

He didn’t know how to respond and just nodded.

Then she suddenly asked, “Are you feeling unwell?”

He looked at her.

“You look pale,” she said.

He lowered his gaze. In truth, he did feel awful—his clothes were still damp, sticking uncomfortably to his body. His right leg ached badly; he suspected it might be infected.

Seeing his silence, she confirmed her guess.

She went to the kitchen, refilled the water, and brought it back along with the medicine.

“Do you have a cold too?” she asked. “Take some medicine.”

He accepted the water but didn’t drink. “Thank you, I’m fine. I don’t need it.”

It was true—his problem wasn’t a simple cold. The medicine wouldn’t help his leg.

She asked, “Where exactly are you uncomfortable?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ll be okay soon.”

She didn’t press further.

Soon, the food arrived.

She brought it in and opened it on the coffee table, then paused.

“Only one pair of chopsticks,” she said.

“Just get another pair,” he replied.

“I don’t have any more,” she said, looking at him.

“…”

He didn’t know what to say. “Then you eat.”

“No,” she said. “It’s a two-person order. I’ll call them.”

He really didn’t understand why chopsticks required a second delivery. Then he said, “It’s fine. I’ll use a spoon—the pot came with one.”

“Really?” She went to the kitchen and came back with a long spoon. “Are you sure you can eat with this?”

He nodded. “It’s fine.”

So they ate in silence.

He ate quickly, almost mechanically, wanting to finish before his leg worsened.

She ate much slower. His pace made her feel inexplicably pressured, and she stopped after a little.

He finished everything, leaving not a single grain of rice.

He set down the box. “Thank you for the meal. I should go now.”

She nodded.

He reached for his crutch. As he leaned over, his right side inevitably bore pressure, and she saw him pause, jaw tightening as he forced himself to move.

When he stood, his shoulders were slumped—clear signs he couldn’t fully support himself.

Cold sweat appeared on his face.

She didn’t think much and stood up to steady him as his left leg began trembling.

“Are you okay? Can you manage?”