I changed before the lecture. White cropped JK top, the hem just below my ribs. The fabric stretched tight across my chest, the buttons straining slightly – not from poor fit, but from the fullness beneath. The waist was drawn in, showing a narrow, defined line. The back was largely open, thin straps crossing in an X, with a small silver gear hanging at the intersection on my spine. Navy blue pleated mini skirt, the hem ending high on the thigh, leaving the legs fully visible. Orange over‑the‑knee stockings, the cuffs stopping ten centimetres above the knee, edged with light gold thread. On my feet, black short boots with nine‑centimetre chunky heels, matte leather, laces tied in bows. My ash‑gold hair was tied in a high ponytail, wine‑red ribbons woven through, a silver gear hairpin at the end. Around my neck, the black satin choker with the dark blue crystal. Silver ear threads dangled from my earlobes, ending in black obsidian. I wore light, elegant makeup – just a thin layer of nude lipstick, brows and eyes softly defined, barely there.
Dianzi stood beside me in her own JK outfit. Light grey cropped top, wine‑red tie. White pleated skirt. Red over‑the‑knee stockings, cuffs at ten centimetres above the knee, edged with silver thread. On her feet, white short boots with nine‑centimetre chunky heels, the leather with a fine pearlescent sheen. Her purple‑pink hair was pinned in a fluffy bun. No makeup – just clean skin. Mother‑of‑pearl clips shone in her hair. Two fine chains layered on her left wrist, the pendants moon and star. A pink crystal anklet flashed on her left ankle. On her back, X‑straps held a small cloud, cotton‑white, soft in the light.
She touched her choker. A faint blue glow flickered, and her floating interface appeared.
"My treasures, today we're attending a career development lecture."
[chat] JK!
[chat] Wife looks like a student today 🎒
[chat] That back detail is amazing ✨
The lecture hall was on the third deck, usually a theatre. Red folding chairs were arranged in rows, seating about two hundred people. The aisles were narrow – knees nearly touched the backs of the chairs ahead.
The air smelled of photocopier toner, sweat, and coffee. Some people stood at the back, some sat on the steps, some leaned against the wall. Everyone held a resume. Some rolled into tubes, some in clear plastic folders, some with curled edges pressed flat by nervous fingers.
A man in a grey suit stood on the stage. His hair was heavily gelled. He cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone.
"Dear job seekers, welcome to today's career development lecture. I am a senior consultant from a well‑known HR firm."
He pointed to a cardboard box on the floor beside the stage. Corrugated material, edges sealed with tape. The words Resume Drop‑off were written on the side in black marker.
"After the lecture, you may place your resumes here. We will organise them and forward them to our partner companies."
The box was open. Some resumes were already inside.
[chat] That box looks so shabby 📦
[chat] Is this legit?
[chat] I'm not looking for a job
The lecture began. The grey‑suit man talked about the usual things – keep your resume concise, highlight your strengths, quantify your achievements, no typos. Some people took notes. Some stared into space. Some scrolled on their phones.
Near the end, he pointed to the box again. "You may now submit your resumes."
The crowd moved. Not a rush – a slow, hesitant shuffle. Some walked straight to the box, dropped their resumes in, and walked away quickly. Others stood at the edge, watching.
The box filled fast. Resumes spilled over the edge. People placed theirs beside the box, stacking them higher and higher.
A man in a grey suit – not the speaker, another one – walked to the box. He held a single sheet of paper. He placed it on top of the pile, then stood there. Not moving. Just standing.
He stood for a long time. His shoulders were tight.
Behind him, a young woman with a ponytail waited. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She looked at the box, then at her resume, then at the box again.
A tourist with a camera walked past. He was blonde, wearing a bright blue shirt. He raised his phone and filmed the queue. "This is worse than back home," he said to his companion. His voice carried.
A man near the front turned and glared at him. The man had been standing in line for over an hour. His face was red. His jaw was tight.
The tourist lowered his phone and walked away.
The line moved forward one step.
——The box is finite. But people's expectations are not. They keep stacking until they collapse.
I took a small paper box from my bag, opened it. Inside was a delicate cake with cream frosting and coloured sprinkles. I handed it to Dianzi. "Give it to the grey‑suit man."
Dianzi took the cake and walked toward the stage. The grey‑suit man was packing his folder. He looked up as she approached.
"Sir, you stood there for ten seconds and no one noticed. Have something sweet to calm your nerves." She held out the cake, voice soft, eyes curving into crescents.
He paused, then smiled and took the cake. "Thank you, young lady."
He took a bite. Chewed. His expression shifted from a smile to confusion, from confusion to distress. His face reddened. His eyes watered. Tears ran from the corners. He covered his mouth with one hand, coughing, bending over, the other hand gripping the edge of the lectern.
"Oh, you're crying? Were you that touched?" Dianzi tilted her head, eyes innocent, voice still soft. "My cake has a secret ingredient, you know."
He looked up at her, tears still on his face, mouth opening and closing without sound. He grabbed a bottle of water from the lectern, drank deeply, breathed heavily, and wiped his eyes with a tissue.
[chat] Hahaha 😂
[chat] Wife, what did you feed him? 🌶️
[chat] That face is killing me 🤣
Dianzi turned and walked back to me. I calmly folded the tripod and put it into the Lingguang Xihuan.
"Let's go," I said.
"Not waiting for him to say thank you?"
"He can't."
She followed me toward the exit. As I passed the cardboard box, I looked down. The top resume had a name written in black marker: Zhao Dayong. The strokes were heavy, pressing into the paper.
The light at the door was bright. The sea glittered in the distance. I glanced back at the lecture hall. The grey‑suit man was still wiping tears. Someone handed him a tissue. Beside the box, a single resume had fallen to the floor. No one picked it up.
In the corridor, sea wind blew through the porthole, lifting our skirts. I held mine down and walked faster.
"Sister."
"Yes."
"Where do those resumes go?"
"When the box is full, they go beside it. When that's full, they go on the floor. When that's full, they get cleared away."
"And after that?"
"Recycled. Paper becomes paper, numbers become numbers. But people's time doesn't come back."
She didn't ask again.
Through the porthole, the sea was very blue. The clouds were very white. Nothing else. In the distance, the cardboard box was dragged away. The top resume fell to the ground and was stepped on. The shoe print was large, toes pointing outward – size forty‑three.