I Was the One Who Never Reached Out First — Then I Learned Why No One Ever Reached Back

The Crack in the Door

When you took off your headphones, the dorm was already dark.

From behind the bed curtain across the room, laughter leaked out, broken and thin. You stared at the screen. The cursor blinked in the input box. You didn't ask what they were laughing at. You put the headphones back in your ears. The music wasn't on. You had them in anyway. Your ears were plugged. Sound moved far away. You turned over. The bed frame creaked. The laughter stopped for a second, then continued.

You thought of middle school.

Back then you had a desk mate named Zhou Qi. You ate lunch together for a semester. He always picked green peppers out of his food and put them in your bowl. You said you didn't eat green peppers. He said, "Then give them to me." Then one day, you went to the office to hand in homework. On your way back, at the corner of the hallway, you heard him talking. He said you were pretty boring. Ask you a question, you answer one sentence. Like wood. The people next to him laughed. You stood at the corner. The stack of notebooks in your hands pressed into your palm. You waited until they left before you went into the classroom. Zhou Qi asked if you handed it in. You said yes. The next day he picked green peppers into your bowl again. You moved your bowl away. You ate alone the next day.

In high school, someone asked to borrow your notes. You lent them. The person said thanks, said they'd buy you milk tea sometime. Sometime never came. Later, the same person asked for your online course account. You gave it. Later still, you passed them in the hallway. They were talking to someone else. Their eyes slid over your face like over a wall. You went back to your seat, pulled your notebook out of the desk, and turned to the last page. In the blank space you had written two words: Forget it.

After that, you kept your notes in your bag. When someone asked, you said you needed them. You stopped lending your account. You didn't offer. You didn't ask. At lunch, you ate with your back to the wall.

On move-in day at university, you were the last to enter the dorm. Three roommates had already added each other on WeChat. They asked your name. You said your name. They asked where you were from. You said the province. They said oh, and went back to talking about their high schools. You made your bed, hung the mosquito net, shoved your suitcase under the bed. On your desk you put a pothos, a gift from your high school homeroom teacher. The leaves were a little wilted. You watered it. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot and dripped onto the keyboard cover. You wiped it with a tissue.

The group chat was busy. You turned on mute. Someone asked if anyone had materials for an elective. You saw it. You didn't reply. Half an hour later, someone else did. You tapped that person's profile, then closed it. You wore headphones in the dorm, ate alone in the cafeteria, and when you passed classmates on the road, if they didn't see you, you took another path. After lights out, laughter from the opposite bunk leaked through the bed curtain. You had your headphones in. The music wasn't on.

Over winter break you went to work at a factory. It was on the edge of the city. There were a dozen people in the workshop. The old employees had their circle. At lunch they crowded around one table, speaking dialect, talking about whose kid did what, about how the line supervisor had yelled at someone yesterday. You sat at the next table and ate the food you brought. You waited a week. No one called you over. No one asked your name. You were a drop of oil in a basin of water, floating on the surface, not scattering, not mixing.

On the eighth day, the screwdriver slipped in your hand. You crouched down to look for it. An old employee walked over and handed you a wrench. He said, "Use this." You took it. The wrench was oily. Your palm slipped. He said, "Wipe it." He tossed you a rag. The rag was gray, torn at the corner. You wiped the wrench and tightened the screw. He said, "New?" You said, "Yeah." He said, "Take it slow."

That noon, you sat in your own spot with your lunchbox. He came over with his lunchbox and sat across from you. He didn't say much. He asked where your hometown was. You named a city. He said his wife was from there too. Then he looked down and ate. You stayed. Your lunchbox stayed in front of you.

Later you started handing him tools. He stretched out his hand, and you put the wrench in his palm. He said, "This one." You said, "Yeah." Once you helped him hold a steel pipe. Rust smeared on your sleeve. That night back in the rented room, you took off your jacket. There was a red ring around the cuff. You boiled water and took two stomach pills. On the table there was no pothos, only a pack of tissues and a plastic cup. You lay down. There was a water stain on the ceiling, like a map.

On the tenth day, the old employees called him to eat lunch together. He said, "No, I brought food." They said, "Come on, we'll split it." He glanced at you. You said, "Next time." They left. You opened your lunchbox. The food was cold. You finished it, washed the lunchbox, and put it on the windowsill. Outside the window was the factory smokestack, breathing white smoke. You ate at your own table again the next day.

After school started, you went back to the dorm. Your roommates were playing games. You pushed the door open. They didn't look up. You put down your bag, turned on your computer. Dust had gathered on the keyboard cover. You wiped it with a tissue. The roommate in the opposite bunk suddenly said, "Hey, have you eaten?" You said, "No." He said, "We're going to the cafeteria later. Come?" Your fingers stopped. There was a water mark on the keyboard cover. You had wiped half of it. You said, "Wait, let me get my card."

You dug your meal card out of the drawer. The card holder had a crack in it, from a fall last semester. You put the card in your pocket. The four of you walked out of the dorm building. On the road they talked about the game. You didn't understand. You walked beside them, hands in your pockets. The wind was a little cold. You pulled the zipper all the way up.

The cafeteria was loud. You carried your tray and looked for a seat. The opposite-bunk roommate said, "Sit here." You sat. They kept talking. You ate with your head down. Halfway through, someone asked, "What did you do over winter break?" You said, "Worked." He said, "Nice." You said, "It was okay." He said, "Where?" You said, "Edge of the city." He said, "Far?" You said, "An hour by bus." He said, "Oh." He picked a potato off your plate. He said, "You don't eat that, right?" You said, "I do." His chopsticks stopped in the air. You picked the potato out from under his chopsticks, put it in your mouth.

They all laughed. You laughed a little too. Not much.

That night back in the dorm, you watered the pothos. The leaves were still yellow, but the roots weren't rotten. You moved it to the windowsill. Outside, someone was playing basketball. The sound came one thump at a time. You opened the group chat. Someone asked who was going to the library on the weekend. You typed two words: I'm going. You sent it. Three seconds later, someone replied: +1. You put your phone face down on the desk. There was still a wet mark on the keyboard cover. You wiped it with your sleeve.

You took out your headphones and put them on the desk. The opposite-bunk roommate asked, "Do you have an 8 a.m. tomorrow?" You said, "Yeah." He said, "Save me a seat." You said, "If I get up." He said, "Fine."

You turned off the light. The bed frame creaked. Laughter from the opposite bunk leaked through the bed curtain. You left the headphones out. You listened. You turned over. The sound was still there. You closed your eyes.

You left the headphones on the desk. The laughter stayed.