By the third week, Li Feng had memorized the timing of the campus lights.
The south walkway flickered exactly five seconds after the clocktower struck 6:00 PM. The cafeteria's neon sign blinked twice, then stuttered out like it was too tired to stay awake. The vending machine in Building C always swallowed coins before spitting out lukewarm soda.
These weren't just glitches to him. They were anchors—the kind of things that didn't change, not even when everything else did.
In a world where everyone walked like they had somewhere to be—and Li didn't—he clung to anything predictable.
His notebook became a quiet confession booth:
> "Cafeteria: fried rice now $9.50. I miss home food."
"4:12 PM: heard a professor laugh. Laughed too. Quietly."
"Shoelace broke. Re-tied it. Still holds. So do I."
He still hadn't touched the two-dollar bill.
Tucked neatly behind his phone case like a dare he didn't want to win.
Not superstition. Not really. It was a test. A way of asking himself, Can I make it without giving in?
---
Across from him, Dani groaned and slapped her laptop shut.
"I've redone this layout six times and it still shifts left when you click. I'm losing it."
They were in the AI club lab again. The kind of room where forgotten tech dreams went to rot. Sunlight fought its way in through dusty blinds. A cold bowl of ramen sat on her desk like it had given up.
Li didn't look up. "You're using relative positioning instead of fixed."
She blinked. "Again?"
He nodded without turning.
"God. You backend guys are freaks," she muttered, opening the code again.
He almost smiled. Almost.
---
Everyone else had gone home. They stayed. The lab was full of that hollow after-sound—chair squeaks, a lazy fan whirring, their keyboards tapping like distant footsteps.
Li stared at the whiteboard. It was still smudged with half-baked diagrams and someone's bad phone number. He liked the ghost of conversation it held. The way silence with Dani didn't feel like loneliness. Just space.
He checked his phone. No missed calls. No texts. Just that one pinned thread.
> Brother.
Last Message: "You'll be fine. Just be better than me."
That was over a year ago.
Li hovered his thumb over the keyboard. Typed:
> "You remember those soy sauce eggs and leftover rice?"
Then erased it.
Typed again:
> "Hope you're doing okay."
This time, he hit send.
The air didn't change. But something in his chest did. Not regret. Not relief. Just… stillness.
---
He skipped dinner again.
Not because of the money, exactly. Though yeah, it mattered.
But mostly because he hated the cafeteria ritual: standing in line, doing mental math he shouldn't need to do, pretending fried tofu was enough. Pretending not to notice how full everyone else's trays were. How easy they made it look.
Instead, he walked.
Wind bit through his hoodie. His fingers stiffened. He passed the library, the court where some guys were still playing ball, shouting trash talk that echoed like joy.
His shoes were falling apart. He'd patched the sole with superglue from a dollar store. It still squeaked when he stepped on his heel.
By the vending machine, two guys were yelling.
"Bro, it just ate my $5!"
Li walked past.
But the thought stuck.
By the time he reached his dorm, he was scribbling furiously:
> "Snacks always run out. People always want sugar. What if… I stocked something cheap?"
He paused.
Then, slower:
> "Not a business. Just… a thread. To follow."
No plan. No money. But a spark.
Maybe, finally, a way to stop skipping meals.
---
The next day, he watched.
Not people, exactly. Behavior.
He sat in the corner of the café, pretending to scroll, but logging every choice people made.
Energy drinks first.
Granola bars.
Chips.
The long pause in front of the vending machine, the half-frown, the walk-away.
He was so into it, he didn't notice Dani until she sat across from him.
She gave him a look. "You stalking the coffee machine?"
He didn't blink. "Studying buying patterns."
"You are so weird," she muttered. But she didn't leave.
She opened her laptop, sighed. "Okay, our project's not completely broken, but the judges'll want more than blinking graphs and elegant code. We need something real. A story."
Li looked up. "A use case?"
"Yeah. Something human."
That word lingered like smoke in his lungs.
---
That night, he opened a new doc:
Micro-Store Concept
He ran numbers. Then again.
Still came up short.
$0.
He stared at the two-dollar bill.
Still untouched. Still waiting.
Was this pride? Or was he just scared to admit he needed help?
---
Next morning, Dani looked like she hadn't slept. "Roommate snored like a dying vacuum," she said, yawning.
Li hesitated. Then slid his laptop over.
"I… had an idea. For the project."
She read slowly. Her eyes widened.
"This is—actually good. Like Uber Eats for broke nerds."
He shrugged. "Rough draft."
She grinned. "I got ten bucks from my job. Let's grab some test snacks."
Li opened his mouth to say no.
But this time, he didn't.
Maybe help wasn't weakness. Maybe it was just… mutual survival.
He nodded. "Okay."
---
They walked to a cheap corner store. Bought ten cookie packs, a few sodas, and off-brand gum. Li carried the bag like it was glass.
Their first customer was someone from Dani's class. Bought a soda for $2.50.
Li watched him leave, stunned.
"One sale," he whispered.
Dani nudged him. "Told you. This is human."
---
Midnight.
He sat at his desk.
Still hungry. But not hurting.
The bill lay in front of him. The same two dollars. But he didn't feel owned by it anymore.
He turned to a fresh page in his notebook.
> "I want to earn before I break."
He slid the bill back into his phone case.
Then turned off the light and let the quiet carry him into sleep.