A Rented Room for One

I left that light on on purpose.

It’s 2:17 AM. Once again, I am staring wide-eyed into the dark at a crack in the ceiling. It appeared last month, cutting across the top of my rental room like a frozen bolt of lightning. Outside, the occasional stray cat yowl drifts in, or the rhythmic thud of a distant construction site pile driver. Further out is the low, perpetual hum of a city that never truly sleeps.

I roll over, the mattress letting out a sharp "creak" that feels unnecessarily loud in the silence. The quilt feels a bit damp; I was in such a rush to redo the bed that the sheets hadn't fully dried after last week’s wash. That’s the curse of living on the first floor—the sun never quite reaches you, and everything carries a persistent, subterranean chill. This room is less than twenty square meters. A bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and it’s full. In the corner, a few cardboard boxes are piled high, filled with things I don't use but can't bring myself to throw away. They followed me from my last apartment; they’ll likely follow me to the next.

Come to think of it, this is my fourth move.

The first time was when I first arrived in the city. I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three others. It felt lively back then. There was always someone to talk to at night, and we’d cook together on weekends. Then, everyone drifted apart. Some went back to their hometowns, others moved to different cities. The day my last roommate left, they just said, "Take care." The sound of the door closing was so soft, as if they were afraid of waking something up. I stood in that empty living room for a long time before it hit me: I was finally, truly, alone.

The second move was because my company relocated and the commute became a nightmare. The third was because the rent hiked so high it felt like a physical blow. The fourth is here: a cheap spot on the ground floor of an old xiaoqu residential compound. My window faces an alley where hardly anyone walks during the day. My landlady is a woman in her fifties. Whenever she collects the rent, she adds a polite, "Be safe living alone," before disappearing. Her concern is perfectly calibrated—just enough so I don't feel entirely invisible, but not so much that I’d mistake it for a real connection.

I’ve become far too familiar with that "perfect distance" in this city.

My colleagues and I grab lunch together, chatting about variety shows, office gossip, and who’s getting promoted. I laugh when they laugh, nod along, and throw in a comment or two, but I never say much. They don’t know where I live. They don’t know what I eat every night. They don’t know that the clothes in my closet are washed and worn, worn and washed, until the collars turn white before I finally part with them. It’s not that I’m hiding anything; it’s just that these details feel meaningless to share. Everyone has their own life to carry; who has the time to listen to your trivialities?

My parents call often. My mom always says the same few things: "Have you eaten?" "What did you have?" "It’s getting cold, dress warmly." "Don’t stay up late." And I always give the same replies: "I've eaten." "It was fine." "I know." "You should get some sleep too." The calls rarely last more than five minutes. After hanging up, I stare at the screen for a while. There are so few names in my contacts. I scroll up and down, not knowing who to call.

Sometimes I really want to talk to someone. Not the "nice weather today" kind of nonsense. I want to talk about how I saw a stray cat crouching by a dumpster today, or how I dreamed of my childhood home last night, or how I’m actually terrified that this is it—that I’ll spend my whole life alone like this. But I scroll through my WeChat contacts, hundreds of people, and I realize I can’t find a single person I can say these things to.

It’s not that I don’t have friends. My old friends are all back home or in other cities. We chat occasionally in group threads about "getting together when I'm back," but when I actually go back, I find our lives no longer intersect. We sit together and, aside from reminiscing about the past, we have nothing to talk about. As for new acquaintances, there’s always a barrier—plenty of politeness, but zero intimacy. Everyone is busy. Everyone is on their own track. No one wants to stop their life for a "casual acquaintance" to listen to emotions that have no beginning or end.

So, the words rot in my stomach. During the day, it’s fine. Work, errands, meals—the momentum of the day pushes me forward. But at night, especially late at night, things surge up like a tide, wave after wave crashing over me.

What I dread most are Sunday nights.

Friday is fine; the relief of the upcoming weekend keeps your spirits up. Saturday is okay, too—sleeping in, scrolling through your phone, catching up on shows. Time moves fast. But by Sunday evening, that feeling creeps in. The sky darkens, the lights stay off, and the glare of the phone screen is blinding. You know work starts tomorrow. You know you have to face those petty tasks again and put on that "I'm doing great" mask. But in that moment, you don’t even have the strength to flip a light switch. You just sit there, listening to the hum of the fridge and the sound of someone upstairs stir-frying dinner. The clink of the spatula against the iron wok drifts through the floorboards, mixing with the smell of cooking oil and smoke as it seeps through your window.

The smell is wonderful. Sometimes it’s braised pork, sometimes garlic greens, sometimes stewed ribs. I’ll take a deep breath instinctively and think of my mother’s cooking. She hasn't cooked for me in a long time. When I went home for the last Lunar New Year, I watched her bustling about the kitchen. I realized she seemed shorter than she used to be, her hair much whiter. She glanced back at me and said, "What are you standing there for? Go sit down." Her tone was exactly the same as when I was a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult. I’m old enough that I should be able to take care of myself. I’m old enough that she shouldn't have to worry.

But have I really taken care of myself? My fridge is always the same: eggs, milk, frozen dumplings, and a few withered cucumbers. My delivery orders rotate through the same few places: Braised Chicken over Rice, Shaxian Snacks, Lanzhou Ramen. Sometimes I want something better, but eating hot pot alone feels too awkward, and ordering several dishes for one person is wasteful. I usually end up buying a rice ball at the convenience store downstairs and eating it while standing at the door.

The clerk at the convenience store knows me now. That young guy smiles every time he sees me and asks, "The usual?" I nod, he taps the register, and I scan my code. we’ve never said anything else, but that smile makes me feel like there is at least one person on this street who knows I exist.

Human beings are strange. You clearly want to be left alone, yet you’re terrified of truly being forgotten. You claim to hate hollow social niceties, yet you crave for someone to understand you. You tell everyone "I'm fine on my own," while your heart waits for a call, a message, a simple "What are you up to?"

I used to have a pothos plant on my windowsill. I’d water it every few days, and it was lively. Then I went on a business trip and forgot to ask someone to look after it. When I came back, the leaves were yellow and drooping. Even after watering, it never recovered. I plucked the dead leaves and threw them in the trash, but I kept the empty pot. I don't know why I haven't tossed it—maybe I don't want to admit I couldn't even keep a pothos alive.

Last month, I bought another one. It’s a hardy plant. I check it every morning before I leave and every evening when I return. Only when I see it’s still alive do I feel at ease. Sometimes I feel like I'm just like that plant—rooted in a tiny pot, scraping by on a little water and light. I don't know when I’ll bloom, or if I even can, but I have to keep living.

I saw a quote recently that said the loneliest moment for an adult isn't eating alone, seeing a doctor alone, or moving alone. It’s when you’ve done all those things and realize you’ve grown used to it. You’re so used to it that it no longer feels bitter or unfair. You just calmly finish the task and move on to the next.

I suppose that’s what "growing up" means.

But I still get hit by those inexplicable emotions in the dead of night. It might be a song, a scene in a movie, or a photo of a party someone else posted. Or maybe nothing happens at all—just a sudden tightness in my chest, a feeling like I want to cry but the tears won't come. It’s like being trapped in a glass jar; you can see the world, you can hear the noise, but you can’t get out, and you can’t make a sound.

I remember summer nights when I was a kid. Running wild in the courtyard with the neighbor kids, then collapsing onto a bamboo mat to look at the stars. I didn't know what loneliness was then. I just thought there were so many stars—too many to count. Now, when I look up, I see only a hazy gray. Occasionally a brighter star appears, but it’s soon lost. Are there fewer stars, or have I stopped looking up? Probably both.

I’ve lived in this rental for nearly a year. The crack on the wall gets longer, the fridge gets louder, and the cats outside yowl more often. I know this won't be my home forever. Maybe next year, maybe next month, I’ll be moving again. Taping up those cardboard boxes, folding my clothes into a suitcase, putting the pothos in a plastic bag, and heading to another "almost identical" room to continue an "almost identical" life.

But sometimes I think, maybe one day, I won't be the only one turning on this light. Maybe there will be someone else lying next to me, listening to my late-night ramblings, who will just say, "Don't overthink it. Go to sleep." Maybe that pothos will bloom—even though I know they don't. Maybe that crack in the ceiling will be patched up one day, as if it never existed.

Maybe not.

But it’s okay. I’ll keep the light on anyway. Not because I’m waiting for someone, but just to let myself know that in this massive city, in this tiny room, there is a little bit of light that belongs to me.

Work tomorrow. Alarm is set for 7:20. I’ll sleep in for five minutes and get up at 7:25. Wash up, change, head out. I wonder if the steamed buns at the convenience store have gone up in price. I wonder if the subway will be delayed again. I wonder if it’s too late to reply to the messages I ignored today.

The sky outside seems a little brighter. I roll over and pull the quilt up. The cat next door has stopped crying. It probably found a warm spot and curled up to sleep.

Let it be, then.

Goodnight.