Chapter 5 — Dark Corner Outside the Light

“There's no reason, I just want to be alone and quiet for a while.” "How long?" "Don't know." "Mom said Qingming will go to visit the grave, asked if I'll come back." “Not coming back.” “What about International Labor?” “Not coming back.” “So summer break…” “Sister, I have to go to school.” I hung up. Palms are sweaty. I blocked that strange number. Then I sat in the last row of the classroom, looking at the rain outside the window, not hearing anything. Heart beats very fast. No fear, no regrets. It's the feeling of losing all strength after an intense exercise. It was like finally pulling out a thorn that had been stuck in my skin for eighteen years. The wound was still bleeding, but the dull pain that penetrated deep into my bones had finally disappeared. In the evening, returning to the dormitory, Lam Tieu Man was watching a movie. Seeing me walk in, she took off one of her headphones. “Your eyes are red.” “Blown by the wind.” “There is no wind in Hangzhou today.” I was stunned then burst out laughing. “So maybe it's an allergy.” She didn't ask anymore and silently gave me half a bag of apricot seeds. “I also often have allergies, eating an apricot pill will cure it.” I took it and took a bite. Sour to the point of grimacing. But there is a corner in my heart that is gently lined by something. Not given by family members. But by a roommate who was willing to pretend to believe I had allergies for me. “Classmate Du Van, your work has entered the next round.” When the reporter club instructor announced this news during the final seminar, I was drawing boxes in my notebook. The work that made it to the next round is an in-depth reportage about the situation of students who have to stay alone during vacation, participating in the provincial student journalism award. The material comes from me. Of course, I don't write myself into the article. I wrote about three other interviewees, combined into a group of portraits. But as I wrote each word, I understood the feeling of being left in that place. "Du Van, I have contacted you for a summer internship position at the in-depth reporting department of a local media agency. Are you interested?" The teacher pushed a business card towards me. “I'm interested.” Summer break, others go home, I go to practice. There is no salary, but lunch is paid and travel expenses are paid. On the first day of reporting, the editor in charge of me was a woman in her thirties, short hair, and spoke very fast. “You're the one who wrote the article about students staying at school during the vacation, right?” "Yes." "The writing is quite good, but it's too restrained. You obviously have stronger emotions, why are you holding back?" I don't answer. She looked at me but didn't ask further. “First go to the scene with me for two weeks and then talk.” During the two months of summer vacation, I followed her on six topics. From the relocation of old residential areas in the middle of the city to employment facilities for people with disabilities, from the wholesale market at four in the morning to the emergency room at eleven at night. Each topic was very tiring, but after finishing each topic, I felt my feet stood on the ground a little more firmly. No more floating. Du Van is no longer like a shadow floating in the house. It's a poem that has a name, an author's name, and someone remembers to say hello. On the day the internship ended, the editor invited me to drink a cup of coffee. “When the recruitment season comes, you can submit your application to me.” “I'm only in my first year.” "I know. Tell me in advance to avoid good seedlings being taken away by others." She stirred the coffee and suddenly asked: "Do your family know that you are interning?" "Don't know." “Don't know?” “My family and I... have little contact.” She didn't show sympathy, just nodded. “So you have to stand firmly on your own.” That sentence is more effective than any words of comfort. Entering my second year, I moved to a shared apartment off campus. I rented with Lam Tieu Man. The apartment has two bedrooms and a living room, and the bike ride to school takes ten minutes. The house is not big but has its own kitchen. I learned to cook. The first dish is fried eggs with tomatoes. I added too much salt, Lam Tieu Man ate a bite, her expression was very complicated. “Are you planning on making salted eggs?” “Isn't it delicious?” "Not good. But I'll eat it all." She actually ate it all and even washed the bowl

. I started to have some very small, very normal joys. The morning alarm is set by me, not called by someone else to wake me up for work. The items in the refrigerator were bought for myself and will not be eaten by anyone. Rainy days have their own umbrella, placed in a fixed position on the umbrella stand next to the door. These things are so small, so small that children in normal families will never feel they are precious. But to me, each thing is a piece of tile picked up from the rubble, brick by brick built into a new roof. In the first semester of the second year, the results of the club's journalism tournament were announced. My article won second prize. On the day I received the award, the instructor read my name on stage, and there were people clapping below. Not much, but authentic. When returning to her seat, Lam Tieu Man used her phone to take a photo of me holding the certificate. “Post it to your friends circle.” "Are not." "Why?"