In a hospital, could one mentally ill patient hinting to another that their doctor was a ghost really prove that they had a mental disorder?
In a normal person's eyes, the patient who said the doctor was a ghost would clearly seem unwell. But Chen Ge didn't see it that way. Deep down, he felt the patient's words deserved consideration—which meant that, subconsciously, he also thought something was wrong with Dr. Gao.
His head started hurting again. Chen Ge clenched his teeth, utterly bewildered. His way of thinking was clearly different from a normal person's. Was he really sick?
For a stubborn person, admitting to having a mental illness was incredibly difficult. Once they accepted that they were ill, it would overturn their entire worldview.
When a person's worldview and way of thinking changed, they were no longer themselves.
He didn't pursue the thought any further. Chen Ge cleared his mind and made no effort to recall his past.
The pain gradually eased. He hadn't even been conscious for twenty-four hours, yet he'd already learned how to keep the pain at bay.
And he'd managed that even after losing most of his memories, with nothing but instinct to guide him.
Sitting on the bench, Chen Ge had regained his composure. He turned to look at Dr. Gao and was surprised to find the doctor already watching him.
Dr. Gao's sharp gaze was fixed on Chen Ge's eyes, as if it could pierce his skin and see the thoughts in his head. It made Chen Ge deeply uncomfortable.
"There's a saying among psychiatrists: never dwell on anything a patient says. We only need to trust scientific data, observe clear pathological changes, and prescribe the right medication," Dr. Gao said slowly. "That's how we take responsibility for our patients—and for ourselves."
"That