Perishing in Her Least Loving Moment

Part 6

Since that interview, I had been immersed in Jasmin's performances and films day and night, my health deteriorating significantly. Reluctantly, Claire came to my hospital room each night at ten to confiscate my phone. Yet, despite her efforts, I often lay awake until dawn.

Several times after my examinations, Claire furrowed her brows as she took my medical reports to consult her seniors and professors. The nurse who changed my dressings hesitated, leaving a handful of washed cherries on my bedside before departing.

When I inquired about her concerns, Claire calmly reassured me that there was nothing to worry about. In the subsequent nights, Claire's office remained lit well into the early hours. I secretly glimpsed the dense, incomprehensible medical terminology on the papers she hid, and for the first time, I felt an unprecedented calm wash over me.

At the onset of my illness, fear consumed me—fear that I might leave this world at such a young age, with dreams unfulfilled. But now, death seemed to present perhaps the best outcome.

A month later, the movie channel released the edited final cut, and I never anticipated my name would trend on social media. #William's Imperfect Ending. Upon clicking the entry, I discovered that a marketing account with millions of followers had compiled a farewell letter chronicling my life and words, sparking an emotional outpouring that gained widespread popularity.

Companies behind the scenes fueled the hype, with netizens praising Jasmin's extraordinary acting skills. Consequently, my gaze upon Jasmin became entranced, as if through her, I could glimpse my departed lover.

They spontaneously began searching for the person I had mentioned in the comments. I thought I had expressed myself sufficiently succinctly, yet some people uncovered my hospital's name and claimed to have seen a girl waiting outside my room.

I feared their curiosity would shatter the tranquility I had managed to cultivate. More than anything, I dreaded Jasmin discovering the truth. If she learned of it, she would likely feel guilt for a lifetime. Yet, nearing death, I didn't want her to sacrifice her future for me.

Thus, I registered an account and left a message on the movie channel, urging everyone to stop searching for that person. I stated I no longer wished to know or care; I simply hoped they wouldn't waste public resources on my account. Yet my words only deepened the sympathy from netizens.

Soon, a photo was posted online—a mere blurred figure and a side profile captured in the hospital corridor, shared by a night-shift nurse on her private Twitter account.

"I've seen people in the hospital corridors who turned their backs on their gravely ill partners, and I've also witnessed someone vigilantly guarding their boyfriend's bedside through the night, never leaving."

"I will always cry for sincere love."

Some perceptive individuals noticed that the silhouette seemed familiar, as if they had encountered it before. They incessantly compared outlines and unearthed details, eventually discovering, in a still from "Love at the End of the Road," a figure of Jasmin standing in the hospital corridor that seemed strikingly familiar.

Then they recognized the youthful contours of a girl's face that bore a resemblance to Jasmin.

......

I quickly deactivated my Twitter account, hoping to distance myself from the online turmoil for whatever life remained. Behind Claire's back, I approached the head of my department, expressing my desire to take a trip to clear my mind.

The director, with his graying hair, gently adjusted his glasses, appearing kind and benevolent. "Claire insists on curing you; she even postponed her further studies in Germany for your sake."

"She is my most outstanding student. Given her hard work, I shouldn't let you wander aimlessly."

"But I believe that a little time away would be more beneficial for your condition."

Thus, I set off with an empty suitcase, dismantled my SIM card, and prepared to board the green train heading to the beach.

However, halfway there, I was halted by a car. The person inside wore luxury sunglasses that concealed half his face, yet I recognized him immediately—it was Hank.

Hank's assistant invited me to board the car, but I stood frozen in place for a long moment until Hank curved his lips into a smile. Though he appeared to be smiling, his expression was far from the usual warmth and familiarity; instead, it radiated an unsettling distance.

"I know your girlfriend is Jasmin."

"Would you mind chatting with me?"