You’re a Fish. Stop Trying to Come Ashore.

A group of people was swimming in the sea.

The water was cold, and the undercurrents pulled at their legs until their arms were tired. Some found a reef or grabbed the side of a passing boat. More finally reached the beach, staggered up, and collapsed on the sand, breathing hard.

The ones already ashore shouted to the ones still in the water. “Keep going. Come ashore. It’s better here.”

They cheered and hugged. A few cried. They carved the word ashore into the sand and took pictures, as if they had won something final.

Then a fish jumped out of the water and landed on the beach.

It flopped. It twisted. Sand stuck to its scales. Its gills opened and closed, slow and heavy. It wanted what the people wanted. It wanted to be ashore.

People gathered around. Some laughed. Some felt sorry for it.

A monk stopped. He crouched on the sand, looked at the fish, and sighed.

“You are a fish. Why are you trying to come ashore?”

Lin Zhao met Lu Yuanzhou outside a civil service exam site.

She was carrying two 2B pencils. He was carrying nothing. He had left his pencil case in the taxi. He stood by the gate, checking his pockets and then his sleeves. Lin Zhao watched him. She did not lend things to strangers. She had learned not to. But the gate was about to close, and his face had that blank look of someone who had already started calculating the cost of failure.

She pulled out the extra pencil and held it toward him.

“It has teeth marks,” she said. “On the end. I chew them.”

He took it. “I’ll give it back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

He did. Three hours later, outside the same gate, he found her sitting on a low wall, eating a steamed bun. He put the pencil beside her. Then he went to a convenience store and came back with a bottle of water. He placed it next to the bun and left before she could say anything.

She did not drink the water. She put it in her bag. It stayed there for two months, until the plastic went soft.

Lin Zhao passed. She got a post in a district office, two hours from the city center. Her monthly take-home pay was six thousand and some change. Her desk was by a window that faced a parking lot. Her job was mostly materials: drafts, revisions, summaries of meetings that could have been emails. She learned which leaders wanted their names in bold and which ones wanted their names left out. She learned how to stand in a hallway and wait.

Lu Yuanzhou got the internet offer. Fifty thousand a month, before tax. He sent her a screenshot of the offer letter. She sent back a sticker of a thumbs-up. He asked if she wanted to celebrate. She said she had to work late. He said he would come to her place. She said okay.

They ate hot pot in her rented apartment. Clear broth, because his stomach had been bad since college. She put lettuce in first, then tofu. He put beef in and watched it turn gray. She showed him her appointment notice. He showed her the offer email. They both smiled. Then they both stopped smiling.

She washed the dishes twice. He stood on the balcony and lit a cigarette, then put it out after two drags. The fridge hummed. On the fridge door was an electricity bill, unpaid.

The first winter, he moved into a bigger apartment near his office. She stayed in her district. They saw each other on weekends. Sometimes she came to his place and slept on the couch while he took calls in the bedroom. Sometimes he came to hers and sat on the floor because she did not have a second chair.

One Friday night, she was writing a report. He was on his laptop. She fell asleep on the couch with a pen still in her hand. He took the pen out. There was ink on her palm, a blue smear shaped like a comma. He covered her with a blanket. Then he went to the kitchen and cooked instant noodles. He put an egg in it. She woke up when the bowl touched the table.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

He sat down and pushed the bowl toward her.

She ate two bites. Then she pushed the bowl back.

He finished it. He washed the bowl. He did not say thank you. She did not say thank you. The radiator clicked.

The second spring, they watched an old movie on his laptop. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He turned his face toward her. She looked up. His hand moved to her cheek. Her breath changed. The phone rang.

It was his project manager. The team was being dissolved. He could transfer, or he could take the package. The call lasted four minutes. He walked to the balcony. She paused the movie. When he came back, his face was the same as it had been outside the exam gate: blank, calculating.

She said, “The noodles are cold.”

He said, “Yeah.”

The kiss did not happen. Later, she folded his gray hoodie and put it on the top shelf of his closet. He did not ask why. She did not explain.

He took the transfer. The new team was worse: longer hours, smaller bonus. He began to make lists. He made lists for the week and the month, then for the year. He made a list of things she should do. He did not show her the list. He just started doing things.

He signed her up for a selection exam without asking. He printed the form. He filled in her name, her ID number, her current position. He left it on her desk with a pen.

She came home and saw it.

“What is this?”

“It’s a good opportunity.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“I’m asking you now.”

“No. You already decided.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

She picked up the form. Her hands were shaking. She tore it once, then stopped. She put the pieces on the table.

“You always do this,” she said.

“Do what?”

“You think if you control everything, nothing bad will happen.”

He stood very still. “And you think if you run away, nothing bad will happen.”

She walked out. She took her coat. She did not take her phone. She sat in the subway station for two hours. The trains came and went. She watched the same advertisement for a teeth-whitening clinic loop six times. Then she went home.

He was asleep on the couch. On the table was the form, taped back together. The tape was crooked. She did not take it. She packed a bag and took the gray hoodie from the top shelf. The keyboard cover he had given her stayed on his laptop, edges worn.

After she left, he kept working. He got a new offer. Another fifty thousand. He took it. He worked from seven in the morning until eleven at night, ordered takeout, and ate at his desk. The cleaning lady found a drawer full of expired stomach medicine. She threw it away. He took it out of the trash and put it back.

She moved into a small apartment near her office. She bought a single packet of noodles at a time. She put a pothos on the windowsill. The leaves turned yellow. She did not buy a new one. She wrote reports, learned how to say no to extra tasks, and started going to bed at ten. Her hand still had the blue ink comma sometimes. She washed it off.

One night, she opened her laptop and searched for selection exam information. She wanted to. That was the only reason. She read the requirements, downloaded the form, and filled it out herself. Her handwriting was small and tight. She saved it as a PDF.

She sent him a message: I signed up.

He was in an interview when the message came. He looked at it. He typed: What do you need me to do?

She did not answer.

After the interview, he went to her office. He stood outside the gate. She came out with a stack of papers. He put his hands in his pockets.

“What should I do?” he asked.

She looked at him. “Get your own place first.”

He nodded. He did not ask her to come back, and she did not ask him to wait. He went to a smaller apartment. He put the keyboard cover back on his laptop. He started leaving his phone in the other room after ten. She took the pothos out of the yellow leaves and put it in fresh soil. It grew one new leaf.

Months later, they ran into each other at a subway station. She was holding two cups of soy milk and handed him one. He shifted his laptop bag to the other shoulder.

“No sugar,” she said.

“Thanks.”

They stood by the ticket gate. She was going to Line 3. He was going to Line 4. The announcement said the train was arriving.

“I’m not making fifty thousand anymore,” he said.

“I know.”

“It’s fine.”

“I know.”

She took a sip of her soy milk. He took a sip of his, then the train doors opened. She walked toward Line 3. He walked toward Line 4. Neither of them looked back.

On the beach, the fish stopped flopping. It lay still for a moment. Then it turned, gills closing, and slid back into the water. The monk stood up. He brushed the sand off his knees. He did not say anything else.