He wore the most expensive clothes, even the price of his backpack was enough to make people gasp, and he was chauffeured to and from school, yet he only carried a little money on him, and the payment function on his phone was disabled. All of this was just too strange.

But Eric Wright's expression, and the slight inflection at the end of his answers, seemed to confirm the truth of these words.

"Then where did you get your cigarettes?" Edward Harris asked.

Eric Wright pressed his lips together, stirring the warm porridge with his spoon. "I bought them. Because I bought cigarettes, bought an umbrella, and also bought some books, I’ve spent almost all the money I brought."

As he spoke, he hefted the heavy backpack onto his lap, unzipped it to show Edward Harris, and told him that there were several books inside that he really liked, ones he had waited a long time to receive.

He also bought sausages for stray dogs.

Edward Harris didn’t really take in what Eric Wright said, his mind drifting to the image of him crouched under the streetlamp, but he didn’t bring it up.

After finishing the porridge, Eric Wright thanked him sincerely, then added, "Usually at times like this, they don’t really give me money, afraid I’ll spend it recklessly."

Edward Harris glanced at the porridge bowl—it was scraped clean, with only a layer of shredded mushroom left at the bottom.

He didn’t understand who the "they" in Eric Wright’s words referred to, or what "times like this" meant.

There were too many secrets about Eric Wright that he didn’t know, and it seemed Eric Wright had no intention of sharing them.

Before he could ask further, Eric Wright seemed to shut off the little valve for answering questions. He zipped up his backpack, smiled at Edward Harris, and said, "Let me transfer you the money for the porridge. I remember you added me, right?"

For some reason, this sentence made Edward Harris’s mood worsen.

So Eric Wright didn’t even remember whether he’d added him or not, or maybe, for someone like him who’d given his contact info to so many people, Eric Wright himself had lost count.

Edward Harris neither confirmed nor denied it. He grabbed his own bag and stood up, gently refusing, "No need."

He picked up his tray, lowered his head slightly, and gave his habitual smile.

"Next time we meet, just buy me a drink."

Chapter 7 P. Mutual Encounter

The day he met Edward Harris was the worst day Eric Wright had had in nearly a year.

In a depressive episode, he’d had suicidal thoughts in the early hours of the previous night, so he made a lot of decisions: stayed up late to finish the books he’d left unfinished, watered every plant in the garden, returned to school at dawn to hand in his completed assignments, and returned all the books he hadn’t yet returned.

He had been living with bipolar disorder for many years. During mild hypomanic phases, his basic life wasn’t much affected—he was even happier and more energetic than usual, able to catch up on all his missed studies in one go. But during severe depressive episodes, he could hardly do anything, not even go to school.

Once again, he’d been absent from school for two months. In the past, classmates would ask what illness he had this time, but now they were used to it. Only one girl was surprised by his sudden return and asked a couple of concerned questions. In response, Eric Wright took out all the candies he had brought and gave them to her, keeping only one for himself.

Since childhood, Eric Wright’s family had told him not to easily reveal to others that he had bipolar disorder.

No one will like you that way, they’ll dislike you, be afraid of you. That’s what they said, so Eric Wright never opened up.

His grandfather had close ties with the leadership of this university, but the only use of that connection was to get him leave from school, to make excuses for his frequent absences. He’d had every kind of illness imaginable, never repeating one. To outsiders, he was a complete invalid, a burden just to be alive.

And indeed, Eric Wright thought, that was true.

He completed his plans one by one, and finally walked to the secondary school gate with its blue bricks and white columns. Leaning against the archway, he finished a cigarette, then rented a shared bike and left without a trace of nostalgia.

At times like this, Eric Wright was always shrouded in gloom. Even though the weather that day was unbelievably good—clear skies and white clouds—when he looked back, all he remembered was the iron-gray road and the sun that felt like it could melt a person.

His limbs were numb, and he knew he wasn’t in a state to ride a bike, but he stubbornly did it anyway. He thought it was like a final burst of energy before death.

The stiff wheels turned little by little, and only with great effort did he feel the trace of wind.

Aimless, Eric Wright felt like a wrecked plane unable to save itself, plummeting again and again on the crowded road.

So, unsurprisingly, he crashed hard into the greenbelt and fell.

Injured, Eric Wright curled up on the ground for a long time. His wrists and knees were scraped, but he felt no pain. When his mind cleared a little, he pushed himself up, picked up his baseball cap, and stubbornly set the bike upright and pushed it aside.

For no reason, he felt thirsty—so thirsty it was unbearable, made worse by the constant honking from the road. So he leaned the bike against a tree and stared blankly at some shops along the street.

During depressive episodes, he had obvious reading difficulties, which became worse after taking medication. The words would enlarge and dance before his eyes. Even ordinary words took him a long time to read; it had taken him a whole night to finish the end of a book.

He picked a café and walked straight toward it, though his steps were slow.

Cool air seeped through the gap in the glass door, reviving his stiff limbs just a little.