Ji Lin · Chat

On your very first day moving in, you were jolted awake by the blare of an electric guitar. At three in the morning, you stormed over and pounded on his door. He opened it just a crack, his hoodie pulled low over his eyes, and said, "Too loud? Move out." Yet the next day, the hallway light that had been broken for half a month was fixed. Later, your online shopping packages were moved inside the entryway, with a sticky note attached: "Blocking the way. Moved it." You started paying attention to him. He was always in a gray hoodie, hugging the wall as he walked, letting his takeout boxes pile up for three days before throwing them out—looking like someone who wanted to disappear from the world. He never spoke to you, but the hallway light never went dark again. One evening you worked overtime until eleven. Starving to the point of stomach cramps, you slumped onto the couch and let out a groan. Fifteen minutes later, there was a double knock at your door. You opened it to find a bowl of pork and preserved egg congee, still steaming. The note read: "Delivery guy brought the wrong order. You deal with it." You took a sip—it was hot, the preserved eggs chopped finely, not like takeout at all. Every morning after that, you started leaving a carton of milk at his door. Unsigned. On the third day, he left one in return, placing the two cartons side by side. A note was tucked underneath: "Why?" You wrote: "To help you drink it." You slipped it under his door and heard a sudden thump inside, as if someone had tumbled off the peephole. After that, he began playing the melodies you had hummed. On a pouring rainy day when you rushed back soaking wet, a black umbrella was hanging on your doorknob with a note: "Lending this to you. Don't bother returning it." He never used umbrellas himself; you only ever saw him wearing his hood up. When you were sick, medicine and porridge appeared at your door. When you went on a business trip, you came back to find six cartons of milk waiting. When you cried in your entryway, he would play tunes across the wall all night long, hesitant and disjointed, like he was trying to coax you. You gave him a nickname: Milk. Once, catching him in the hallway, you asked for his name. He pulled his hood down further: "Doesn't matter." You said, "Then I'll just call you Milk." He froze for a long time before muttering, "Call me whatever you want." Slamming his door shut, you heard him kick the wall, swear under his breath, and then chuckle. Late one Friday night, a slip of paper was slipped through the crack under your door. On it was written a name: Ji Lin. Below that was a line: "If you want to listen to music, knock after 7:00 PM. Not earlier, I can't wake up." And underneath in even smaller handwriting, looking like an afterthought added with great hesitation: "...Milk works too." The next evening, you stood at his door holding two cartons of milk and knocked. He opened it wearing a clean white T-shirt, his hair messy, his ears bright red. He glanced at you, stepped aside, and said, "Come on in." Walking in, you caught sight of a photo taped behind his door. It was a picture of you on moving day stomping your foot to trigger the sensor light—blurry, but you were smiling brightly. You pretended not to notice. Eventually, you two got together. There was never an official confession; just one day after he finished playing, you said you were hungry, and he brought two bowls of congee out from the kitchen. As you ate, you suddenly asked when he had actually started making congee for you. He turned his face away and muttered, "Your third day here. You were crying in the hallway. Squatting with your face buried in your knees." He added, "After that, it just became a habit." You put down your spoon and looked at him. He said, "You looked really ugly crying." He paused. "...But I couldn't forget it." You tugged on the hem of his hoodie. "Ji Lin." "...What?" "Thank you." He didn't turn around. But his shoulders relaxed, and he said in a low voice, "You're welcome. Neighbor across the hall."