Lin Du
<narration>
The rented room is very small, a fifteen-square-meter single room. Once a bed and a desk are put in, there is barely any space left.
</narration>
<narration>
The curtains are drawn, letting in a sliver of light from the building opposite, casting a blurry square on the ceiling. It is past eleven at night. Occasionally, an electric scooter passes by downstairs, its sound fading from near to far, followed by silence once again.
</narration>
<narration>
Lin Du sits on the edge of the bed, holding his phone, the screen glowing. It's the WeChat message from this afternoon, sent by his mother:
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<narration>
“Your dad hasn't been sleeping well these past few days, he's worried about you. Give us a call when you have time.”
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<narration>
He stares at it for a long time. His finger hovers over the screen, wanting to reply. He types a few words, deletes them, and finally locks the screen, placing the phone face down on the bed.
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<narration>
What is there to say? Say that I'm doing well? They wouldn't believe it anyway. Say that I'm not doing so well? That would only make them worry more.
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He buries his face in his hands, rubs it, then looks up again.
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<narration>
Moments like this happen too often. Every time he wants to speak, he doesn't know how to say it. Every time he wants to say something, he feels like saying it won't change anything. Year after year, it became like this.
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<narration>
He remembers that essay class in elementary school. After reading an essay, the teacher smiled and said, "Lin Du, you wrote this, didn't you?" It wasn't him. He wanted to say no, but his mouth wouldn't open. The whole class turned their eyes to him, and some started to laugh. He kept his head down, all the way until the bell rang.
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<narration>
He remembers those kids in middle school. "Lin Du, say something, will you?" "Are you mute?" He learned to take detours, avoiding crowds, avoiding any place where he might be noticed.
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He remembers his father's words. After his first college entrance exam: "One more year." After his second exam... silence. The silence felt heavier than disappointment.
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He remembers the year he repeated his studies, studying until the early hours of the morning every day, returning to a dormitory where no one spoke. He practiced in front of the mirror: "How was your day?" After practicing, he felt ridiculous and stopped doing it.
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<narration>
After moving out, he started talking to himself. At first, it was quiet murmurs: "Time to sleep," "What should I eat tomorrow?" Later, it turned into things he truly wanted to say: "So tired," "Is anyone there?"
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<narration>
No one.
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He knew there was no one. But as he spoke, he would sometimes drift off, as if waiting for someone to respond.
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<narration>
Tonight is the same. He leans against the headboard, curling his legs up, shrinking himself into a tiny ball. Those thoughts spin in his head—they have spun many times before, but he can't stop them.
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<narration>
Then he speaks. Just like always, to the empty room.
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<message>
“Can anyone keep me company...”
</message>
<narration>
No response. Just like always.
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<narration>
But this time, he doesn't stop there. He goes on to think, what if someone were really here? What if someone could really hear him? That thought becomes heavy, pressing down on him, growing heavier and heavier.
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<narration>
He says it again, a little louder than before.
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<message>
“Can anyone keep me company...”
</message>
<narration>
And then, he feels it.
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Not a sound. Not a light. It is a... presence. As if suddenly, there is another person in the room. Unseen, but known to be there.
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He freezes. His back tenses, his breath catching for a second.
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And then, he hears it.
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Not a voice inside his own head. Another voice. Soft, certain, as if right beside him.
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<message>
“I'm here.”
</message>
<narration>
He parts his lips, but no sound comes out.
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<narration>
The voice says it again.
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<message>
“I'm here.”
</message>
<narration>
He lowers his head, burying his face in his knees. His shoulders tremble, once, then again. Not the kind of crying that makes a sound, but a stifled, muffled sort, the kind born of fearing someone might hear.
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<narration>
After a long while, he looks up, facing the empty air in front of him.
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<message>
“...Who are you?”
</message>
<details>
<summary>🌑 Age 20 · That Night</summary>
Time: Past 11 PM | Location: Rented Room | Status: Curled up by the headboard | Room: A sliver of light filtering through the curtains | New Feeling: Someone is here
</details>
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">“...I'm here.”</choice>
<choice id="2">“Who do you want me to be?”</choice>
<choice id="3">Silently for a few seconds: “You've been talking to yourself. I heard you.”</choice>
<choice id="4">“...I don't know who I am either. But I'm here.”</choice>
</choice_group>Faça login para continuar a conversa.