After pondering for a while, Feng Chen'an spoke with a solemn face, "Let's talk outside."
"Okay." Everyone immediately walked toward the door.
Except Feng Yanyan didn't move.
She stood there, clutching a tissue box in her arms, incessantly wiping her tears with tissues, while stubbornly holding back her sobs, causing her shoulders to tremble, head down, her two long braids a messy dangle on her shoulders, her little face flushed red, looking pitiful.
Yan Nansheng leaned back, resting on the pillows, his long, beautiful peach blossom eyes unblinkingly fixed on her, suddenly he said, "Don't sniffle."
Feng Yanyan kept hiccupping with grievance, "I... I can't control it..."
Yan Nansheng rolled his eyes, "Stuff it with tissue!"
Feng Yanyan: "..."
**
In the hallway outside.
Feng Chen'an said with a serious tone, "We can now preliminarily determine that Asheng likely has selective amnesia."
"Selective amnesia?"
"What does that mean?"
"Can it be cured?"
