Chapter 8: Fragments (Part 1)
Zhao Lei put a piece of braised pork into Lin Yuan's bowl. Lin Yuan didn't push it back.
That piece of meat was fatty, glossy. Lying on the white rice like a small piece of凝固的黄昏.
Lin Yuan remembered Zhao Lei saying he loved braised pork the most. First semester, the first time the cafeteria made it, Zhao Lei stood in line for ten minutes. When he came back, the soup had spilled on his hand,烫得他龇牙咧嘴, but he still smiled and said "worth it, worth it." He said, with braised pork, the fatty part is the best. Lean is boring. His eyes were bright. There was a grain of rice at the corner of his mouth. Lin Yuan thought back then, this guy is so easy to please. A bowl of braised pork. Like his whole life was lived for that one bowl.
Now Zhao Lei gave him the fatty piece.
"Eat." Zhao Lei's voice was flat. He didn't look at Lin Yuan. He moved his chopsticks around in his bowl, picked out a grain of rice, and put it in his mouth.
"Don't you like it?" Lin Yuan asked.
"Not anymore."
Zhao Lei lowered his head and took a bite of plain rice. Plain rice. No side dishes. He ate fast, like he wanted to fill his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk.
Lin Yuan looked at the meat. He didn't know if Zhao Lei really didn't like it anymore or was pretending. He didn't know if Zhao Lei was pretending because he wanted to give the meat away, or because Zhao Lei was imitating him — imitating his distance, his "nothing," his "not anymore." He remembered the last time he ate with Zhao Lei was three days ago. Before that, he didn't remember. He was always gone. Training. Missions. Southeast Road. The library. Zhao Lei asked "where are you going," he said "out." Zhao Lei asked "with who," he said "a classmate." Zhao Lei stopped asking. Zhao Lei wasn't stupid. Zhao Lei knew he was lying. Zhao Lei just didn't want to call him out.
He ate the meat. Didn't say thank you. Zhao Lei didn't wait for him to say thank you.
---
The cafeteria. Fluorescent lights buzzed. The clatter of bowls and chopsticks, chairs scraping the floor, the TV playing news in the distance. All these sounds mixed together like boiling porridge. Lin Yuan and Zhao Lei sat across from each other, neither speaking. Between them: a bowl of plain rice, a plate of greens, two leftover bones. And a table. And a meter of distance. And an entire galaxy.
Zhao Lei reached out to grab the vinegar bottle in front of Lin Yuan. Lin Yuan flinched. Not on purpose. His body moved on its own. Zhao Lei's hand stopped in mid-air. Stopped for one second. Then went around, grabbed the bottle. He didn't look at Lin Yuan. Poured some vinegar into his bowl. Continued eating.
Lin Yuan looked at that hand. That hand had once patted his shoulder. Had passed him dried sweet potatoes. Had slammed the keyboard excitedly during games. Now, when that hand reached out, he dodged it. That one second when Zhao Lei's hand stopped in mid-air — Lin Yuan felt that second was longer than his life.
He didn't know if Zhao Lei had noticed. Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe Zhao Lei had noticed but pretended not to. Just like he pretended not to like braised pork anymore. They were both pretending. Pretending nothing was wrong. Pretending they didn't like it. Pretending not to notice that hand being dodged. Pretending they were still friends. Pretending nothing had changed.
---
After eating, Zhao Lei didn't immediately put on his headphones and start gaming like usual. He sat on his bed, flipping through a GRE vocabulary book. Lin Yuan was surprised. He never knew Zhao Lei was preparing for grad school.
"You're taking the exam?" Lin Yuan asked.
"I don't know. Just looking." Zhao Lei didn't look up, his finger tracing over words. "My mom says jobs are hard to find now. Grad school gives more options."
Lin Yuan didn't say anything. He thought of Zhao Lei's mom. The bag of dried sweet potatoes. Her saying "thank you." Zhao Lei was planning for a year from now. One year. Lin Yuan didn't know if he'd still be alive then.
"How's your English?" Zhao Lei suddenly asked.
"Okay."
"Then help me with this question." Zhao Lei handed the book over, pointing at a multiple-choice question. Lin Yuan glanced at it and picked C. Zhao Lei checked the answer. "It really is C." He put the book away, leaned back against the headboard. Didn't continue studying. Didn't game either. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about something.
Lin Yuan sat on his own bed, watching Zhao Lei. Zhao Lei had lost weight. His chin was sharper, the dark circles under his eyes darker than before. He didn't know if it was because of his mom's hospitalization or something else. He opened his mouth, wanted to say "haven't you been sleeping well lately," but didn't. He was afraid Zhao Lei would ask him "you too."
They sat like that, neither speaking. The dorm was quiet. Old Zhao wasn't there. The other roommate's bed was empty, the blanket folded neatly. Only the wind outside, blowing the curtain gently.
"Lin Yuan," Zhao Lei said.
"Yeah?"
"Are you avoiding me?"
Lin Yuan's heart jumped. "No."
"When you lie, your right eye twitches." Zhao Lei turned to look at him. His gaze was calm. No accusation. No anger. Just calm. "You didn't know?"
Lin Yuan instinctively touched his right eye. He didn't feel anything. But he didn't know if Zhao Lei was telling the truth. Maybe he was. Maybe Zhao Lei was bluffing. Maybe Zhao Lei had wanted to ask for a long time, just never did.
"I'm not," Lin Yuan said.
Zhao Lei looked at him for a few seconds. Then smiled. The smile was brief, the corner of his mouth crooked. It wasn't really a smile. More like a surrender. "Alright."
He stood up, walked to his desk, shoved the vocabulary book into the drawer, then put on his headphones. The keyboard started clicking. The screen light flickered on his face. The same as before. But different. Before, when Zhao Lei lost at games, he'd curse, slap the table, say "is this teammate a bot?" Today he said nothing. He just played. Game after game. Didn't curse when he lost. Didn't laugh when he won.
Lin Yuan lay on his bed, watching Zhao Lei's back. He'd seen this back for almost a year. Gaming. Eating takeout. Sleeping face-down on the desk. Very ordinary. So ordinary he wasn't sure he'd ever really looked. But today he looked carefully. Zhao Lei's shoulders seemed a bit more slumped than before. He used to sit up straight when gaming. Now he was slightly hunched. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe from his mom's hospitalization. Maybe from him.
He remembered the beginning of the semester, when Zhao Lei brought a bag of apples from home and gave them to everyone in the dorm. He gave Lin Yuan two, said "you're too skinny, eat more." He ate one. Not sweet. A little sour. But it was the first piece of fruit he'd had in college. Later, his mom sent dried sweet potatoes. Zhao Lei gave him half the bag. He asked where his mom was, Zhao Lei said back home. He said your mom's hands are really skillful, Zhao Lei said no kidding. Those were a long time ago. So long he thought he'd forgotten. But he hadn't. They were still there. Like that piece of braised pork — swallowed, but the taste still lingered in his mouth. Like that dodged hand — pulled back, but the arc still hung in the air.
"Zhao Lei," he said.
Zhao Lei didn't turn around. "Yeah?"
"Your mom... discharged yet?"
"Next week." Zhao Lei's voice came from under the headphones, muffled. "The doctor says she's recovering well."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
Lin Yuan opened his mouth. Wanted to say "thank you for letting me help when your mom was in the hospital." Wanted to say "the sweet potatoes your mom made were really good." Wanted to say "you're my only friend in college." But he couldn't.
Three months. Ninety days. Two thousand one hundred sixty hours. He'd counted. From that night until now, forty-seven days. One thousand one hundred twenty-eight hours passed. Forty-three days left. One thousand thirty-two hours. Maybe less. Maybe tomorrow would be the last day.
He only knew that if he died, Zhao Lei would be sad. So better to distance himself now. Farther away, then it wouldn't hurt as much. He told himself this a hundred times. But every time he said it, his chest ached. Not his heart. Other places. The shoulder Zhao Lei had patted. The hand that had taken the sweet potatoes. The mouth that had eaten the braised pork. Those places all hurt. They didn't listen.
He lay down, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Closed his eyes.
The faucet was dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
It wasn't like this before. Before, the dorm was noisy. Zhao Lei's gaming sounds, Old Zhao's snoring, the other roommate's phone calls. Now Zhao Lei didn't talk. Old Zhao slept early. The other roommate's bed was empty. The dorm was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the faucet drip. Quiet enough to hear his own heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Mingled with the coin's vibration. Couldn't tell which was which.
(Continued in Part 2)