The day always begins before I'm ready for it.
My alarm clock doesn't ring so much as shriek, exploding into the quiet of my little apartment like a desperate animal. I smack it with the accuracy of someone who has practiced the motion far too many times. The ringing dies, leaving behind the muffled hum of early morning Chengdu outside my window—vendors setting up their stalls, delivery scooters zipping along the street, an old woman shouting about freshly steamed buns.
For a moment, I lie there staring at the ceiling. There's a crack that runs diagonally across it, shaped vaguely like a dragon's tail if I squint hard enough. I imagine it moving, curling, breathing. I imagine waking up one morning to find the ceiling collapsed on me like it finally grew tired of holding itself together.
Honestly, I'm surprised I haven't collapsed first.
But then a familiar scent drifts through the air—scallions and ginger, warm and comforting—and I hear the soft clinking of a ladle. Grandma is already awake and making breakfast. She insists on doing it every day, even though her knees ache when she stands too long. She says it keeps her "useful."
I roll out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen. She glances over her shoulder at me, her eyebrows rising like it physically pains her to see me awake this late.
"You'll miss half your life sleeping like that," she says.
"I'm seventeen, Grandma," I mumble. "I'm supposed to be tired."
She snorts. "When I was seventeen, I was cooking for the whole village. You young people breathe too comfortably."
Her scolding is affectionate, though. Everything she does is. I'm the only family she has left, and she treats me like a treasure she's terrified of losing. I feel guilty sometimes, knowing she works harder for me than I do for myself.
I eat quickly, grab my bag, and head out into the morning.
The streets are already alive. Vendors shout about their goods. The aroma of fried dough sticks fills the air. Buses groan along the road like beasts too old for their workload. I weave through pedestrians, clutching the straps of my backpack, my breath fogging slightly in the cool air.
I like walking to school. It's the only time the day feels entirely mine.
When the school gates come into view, so does Zhao Ming. He stands there like he owns the sidewalk—tall, broad-shouldered, uniform slightly messy in the way that makes people forgive him because it looks cool. His hair catches the sunlight like he did it on purpose.
He notices me, grins, and slaps an arm around my shoulders with the casual confidence of someone who has never been slapped down by life.
"Xiao Yun! You're alive. Barely, but alive."
"That's rich coming from someone who failed the last three homework assignments."
"Detours." He waves it off. "The journey of genius is not a straight line."
"It's not even a line," I say. "It's a scribble."
He laughs, loud enough to draw glances. People like Zhao Ming. They always have. He's bright, overwhelming, warm in a way that makes others want to stand near him. Most days, I'm grateful to be his friend. On others… I wonder if I'm just a prop in his spotlight.
The rest of the class filters in—Chen Rui, who looks like he hasn't slept in three days but will still score top marks; Wang Huan, who sings like a broken flute but sings anyway; Sun Jia, who smiles like she's hiding knives behind her teeth.
And then there's Lin Xue.
She walks toward the doors with her hair neatly tied, her posture straight, her expression calm. She's the class monitor, the one teacher trust the most, and half the boys are convinced she's secretly the female lead of some campus romance.
She gives me a polite nod as she passes.
I nod back. Smoothly. Casually. Not like my heart just tripped over itself.
Classes pass the way they always do—some fast, some painfully slow. I take good notes. I answer questions politely. I help people who pretend they don't need help.
Everyone calls me "nice."
Being nice feels like something you do without thinking. But it's also something people take from you without asking.
During lunch break, I sit with Zhao Ming and the others. They laugh about the latest internet drama, argue about who was cheating in a mobile game last night, complain about homework that none of them actually plan to do.
I laugh along, even when my jokes fall flat. Even when someone interrupts me with a louder joke and everyone laughs at theirs instead.
I don't resent them. Not really. It's just… sometimes I wish I could be the one people listen to. The one people look at first. The one they choose without thinking.
After school, I head to Old Liu's teahouse for work. It's tucked between a calligraphy shop and a convenience store, with faded lanterns hanging outside and a crooked sign that looks like it should have collapsed decades ago.
Inside, it smells like dried tea leaves and nostalgia.
Old Liu sits behind the counter, reading a newspaper older than I am. His eyebrows lift when he sees me.
"Young Li," he says, "you look like a ghost stuffed into a school uniform."
"That's called adolescence," I reply.
He chuckles and hands me a tray of cups. "Be careful. The world is not gentle with people like you."
"People like me?"
"Kind ones."
He says it like a warning, not a compliment.
I spend three hours sweeping, wiping tables, helping regular customers find their favorite blends. Some evenings, I study in the corner after closing, reading under warm lamplight while Old Liu mutters about the state of modern youth.
By the time I leave, the sun has set and the city glows with neon signs. The walk home feels longer at night, but I don't mind.
As I turn a corner, I spot someone struggling with an umbrella under a streetlamp. Hair blowing in the wind, hands fumbling with the clasp.
Lin Xue.
I hesitate for half a second. Then I force my legs to move.
"Need help?" I ask.
She looks startled—then relieved when she recognizes me. She holds out the tangled umbrella.
"It's stuck. I think it hates me."
"I can relate," I say, taking it gently.
Our fingers brush. Only for a second. But long enough for my heart to perform a stupid acrobatic trick.
After two attempts, the umbrella pops open. She smiles—small, grateful, warm.
"Thank you, Li Yun."
"Anytime."
She walks away, sheltered under the umbrella like a scene from a drama my grandma would watch. I stand there, trying not to grin like an idiot, and fail miserably.
Moments like that carry me through entire weeks.
Life isn't extraordinary. But sometimes… it feels like it could be.
If I reach a little farther. Run a little faster. Hope a little harder.
I go to sleep imagining better days.
I have no idea that the world is already cracking beneath my feet.