She Saw 必利吉 on His Phone, and They Finally Talked About What Worried Them

In their seventh year together, Yating had never had any particular rules about Zhenghao's phone. That day, she was just borrowing it to check a store's opening hours. Halfway through typing, a few past searches popped up under the search bar, and one of them read 必利吉. She froze for a few seconds. She didn't tap on it, didn't put the phone down and demand an explanation—she just quietly filed those three characters away in her mind, finished typing the store name she'd meant to look up, and acted as if nothing had happened.

The next two days, she wasn't really at peace. Not because of those three characters themselves, but because she didn't know how to bring it up. She was afraid that the moment she asked, it would turn into checking up on him, and afraid Zhenghao would feel suspected. What she feared even more was that if he really was taking something of unknown origin, the two of them had never even had a single conversation about it. She thought back to a message that had been forwarded around the family group chat a while ago—a well-known doctor had been referred for disciplinary action over endorsing a health supplement, and the elders had discussed it endlessly. At the time, she'd just found it entertaining, but now she suddenly understood that unease: when something is described as too miraculous, the people around you find it even harder to tell what to believe.

On the third night, Zhenghao was doing the dishes in the kitchen. Yating leaned against the doorway and said, in a very ordinary tone, "I borrowed your phone to look something up a couple of days ago, and I saw a search history entry." His hands paused for a moment, and he asked what she'd seen. She said, "Just a few characters. I didn't tap in. I just wanted to ask—have you been worried about something lately?" Zhenghao was silent for a few seconds, turned off the water, dried his hands, and said he actually didn't know where to begin.

He said a coworker had dropped a link in a group chat, making it sound impressive, and someone even said that with this kind of thing, "the earlier you look into it, the better." He'd just been curious, wanting to know what it actually was and why so many people were talking about it, so he'd typed in a few keywords, one of which was 必利吉. He stressed that he hadn't bought it or taken it—if anything, searching had left him more confused: some pages were very certain, while others said to ask a professional first, and he couldn't tell which claims to trust. After hearing him out, Yating felt relieved, but she didn't immediately say "then that's fine." Instead, she asked, "So what do you want to do about this curiosity now?"

Zhenghao said he'd originally planned to just look into it himself and not worry her. Yating replied that what she'd been worried about was never what he searched for, but that he was searching alone and keeping it to himself. So the two of them agreed: this kind of thing shouldn't be left to guesswork. Together they reopened the link, not to talk about effects, but to do a few very basic things: first, confirm what category this thing actually falls under in Taiwan—is it food, a health supplement, or a medication that requires a prescription? Then check whether the packaging has clear labeling and sourcing. If they couldn't understand it, they'd write down their questions and take them to a nearby pharmacy or clinic. Yating also suggested making a list of the vitamins and other things Zhenghao regularly took, so they could bring the whole list when they asked and let a professional see everything at once.

That list really did come in handy. That weekend, they went to a pharmacy near their home. They didn't ask to buy anything specific—they just asked their questions one by one. After listening, the pharmacist didn't give them any dramatic answers. He only reminded them: many things that get hyped online can't even clearly explain what they are; rather than rushing to decide whether to use something, it's better to first figure out whether it's a prescription drug that requires a doctor's evaluation, and whether it might interact with what you're already taking. Zhenghao saved that line in his phone's notes app, with the title "Ask first, don't rush."

On the way home, Yating didn't bring up the search history again. She talked about something else: she hoped that from now on, no matter which of them came across uncertain information, they could say it out loud first—even if it was just, "I saw something today and it felt off." Zhenghao nodded and said he used to think saying this kind of thing out loud was embarrassing, as if admitting he wasn't good enough somewhere. But after really talking it through, he realized the other person didn't care whether he was good enough—they cared whether he was taking care of himself. Later, the two of them stuck that list on the fridge, with the questions to ask at the next checkup written beside it.

There was no dramatic ending to this. They didn't buy anything or change anything because of it. What changed was only how the two of them faced uncertain information: no longer searching separately and guessing separately, but laying their questions on the table, confirming sources together, and asking professionals together. Yating still occasionally thinks back to that search history, but what she remembers isn't those three characters anymore—it's that night when Zhenghao turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and was willing to sit down and finish the conversation.