It was half past seven in the morning. I dragged myself out of bed only after my alarm had rung for the third time.
Chengdu outside my window was already bright. The morning mist had lifted a little. Steamed bun shops downstairs were sending up clouds of steam. The buzz of electric scooters and vendors' shouts mixed together — this was what the most ordinary morning in the city sounded like.
I touched my face. The stubble felt even coarser than last night.
I couldn't be bothered to shave. No one was going to see me anyway.
I took a quick cold shower, put on my faded black T-shirt, and headed out.
The breakfast shop at the community gate always served the same few items.
I walked over as usual: "Boss, two pork buns, one soy milk, to go."
Total: ten yuan.
This was the most fixed, and most worry-free expense of my day.
Holding the warm buns, I walked along the street. The wind was slightly cool, blowing on my face and finally chasing away some of the tiredness from staying up all night fixing code. Tea houses by the road were already open. Several elderly men sat on bamboo chairs, drinking tea and chatting, taking their time as if time meant nothing to them.
I couldn't help staring for a few more seconds.
I was so jealous.
No need to worry about next month's rent, no stress about finding outsourcing jobs, no family pressure to get married, no watching everyone around me getting better off while I stayed stuck.
I reached the bus stop. Most people waiting were office workers, heads bowed over their phones, faces looking about the same as mine — heavy with sleep deprivation. When the bus toward Tianfu Third Street arrived, crowds swarmed onto it like sardines being herded forward.
I didn't get on.
I didn't have to go to work.
Or rather, I had no job to go to.
Thirty-three years old, unemployed, a freelancer. It sounded nice to call myself an independent developer. Plainly speaking, I was just a coder taking odd jobs.
When I used to work at a big tech company, I always envied people who didn't have to clock in, attend meetings, or put up with bosses. Now that I was living that life, I realized: **freedom from work comes at the cost of anxiety.**
No steady monthly salary, no social insurance, no holidays, no sick leave.
I ate only when I had orders; otherwise, I lived off my savings.
Clients delaying payments, constantly changing requirements, last-minute additions, midnight deadlines — all part of daily life.
I went back to my rental, set the breakfast on the desk, and turned on my computer.
First I checked the progress of yesterday's outsourcing project.
Still no confirmation from the client. Message read but not replied.
I was used to it.
I opened several freelancing platforms and refreshed them over and over.
There were plenty of small jobs, but most paid pitifully little while demanding a lot. Anything decent was snapped up by dozens of people in seconds.
That's how the industry was these days. Young coders kept pouring in, charging less, staying up later, being more obedient and less complaining. A thirty-three-year-old programmer was an awkward age for job hunting, and even losing the price advantage for freelance work.
I slouched back in my chair, took a bite of the bun, and tasted nothing.
My phone rang again. It was my mom.
I stared at the screen for several seconds before answering.
"Are you awake? Did you add the girl I told you about yesterday on WeChat?"
Her tone was the same as always — a little anxious, a little helpless, a little disappointed.
I chewed the bun and mumbled: "Not yet. Kind of busy lately, fixing a project."
"Busy, busy, busy. You're busy all day, yet I never see you getting anywhere." My mom sighed. "I'm telling you, this girl is really good. She's a teacher, stable job, quiet personality. Don't be so picky anymore."
"I'm not being picky."
"If you're not picky, then talk to her! Meet her! You're thirty-three already. The kid next door who grew up with you is in kindergarten already, and you're still wandering alone. Your dad and I feel embarrassed to chat with people outside…"
I could have recited the rest by heart.
Nagging about marriage, stability, buying an apartment, settling down.
Everything she said was reasonable. Every sentence felt like a tiny needle pricking my heart.
I listened quietly, occasionally saying "mm-hmm", until she hung up.
Silence returned to the room.
I finished the rest of the bun, drank all the soy milk, and threw the bag in the trash.
I opened the document. The cursor blinked on the blank page.
I'd impulsively decided to write my own story last night. But now that I had to continue, all I saw was dense, heavy helplessness.
No earth-shaking plot, no satisfying comeback,
just an ordinary man, in Chengdu, getting by day after day.
But then I thought: isn't this exactly real life?
Not everyone gets rich and successful.
Not every story has a perfect ending.
Most people are just like me —
holding a ten-yuan breakfast, facing an invisible future,
confused, yet still forcing themselves to keep going.
I took a deep breath and typed a line:
Thirty-three years old, single in Chengdu. Life is ordinary, but I'm not ready to give up.
Sunlight outside grew brighter, shining onto the screen, a little dazzling.
A new day, still ordinary.
But the story had to go on.