I don't know when it started, but the drone of the cicadas had become a kind of electric wave, a ceaseless interference, omnipresent. It was as if their high-frequency vibrations were meant to drill tiny holes into the world's outline, only to fill them again with the near-violent red of pomegranate blossoms. I was strangely unaware of this shift; the concept of time, for me, was like a watch with a dead battery. The dial remained, but the hands had long ceased to move. In any case, summer had arrived just like that.
Six o'clock in the evening. At this hour, the world always presents a strange kind of equilibrium. The logic of the daytime is in retreat, while the sensibility of the night has yet to fully arrive. The twilight, like the last dregs of orange juice, was thinly spilled across the horizon. I was alone on the athletic field, not so much for a walk as to perform a futile ritual of confirming my own coordinates. The red plastic track under my feet had become a giant, melting piece of chewing gum. Every step was met with a viscous resistance, as if the earth's gravity had suddenly increased by a few percentage points. I didn't dislike it.
The surrounding trees were silent, feigning profundity. In the distance, the windows of the academic building reflected the last of the light, like a row of enormous, blank monitors. It seemed as though everything was reminding the species known as pedestrians to keep their eyes wide open: the world was slowly shutting down.
By seven, I was in my dorm room. It wasn't so much eating dinner as it was moving an object called "food" from point A (the plate) to point B (the stomach). On the computer, a variety show was playing, a group of people emitting a meticulously calibrated, flawless laughter. The sound was like countless, well-trained silver fish swimming through the air, yet unable to enter my waters.
I isolated myself, stepping out onto the balcony. The night sky was a vast expanse of felt soaked in ink, clutching the last vestiges of life. The silhouettes of the high-rises were cold and precise, cutting the sky into meaningless geometric shapes. I was looking for the moon, as if searching for an important part lost in the crack of a sofa. Of course, I found nothing. In a city like this, the moon is probably in the same category as unicorns: the stuff of legend.
The sound of voices drifted up from below, distant and indistinct, like an echo from the bottom of a deep well. In that instant, I felt like an astronaut. Outside my capsule was the clamorous human world, while I was enveloped in a thick vacuum called "loneliness." My only connection to the world was, perhaps, the damp wind on my face.
At ten-thirty, the lights-out bell, with its usual unquestionable authority, declared the end of the light. I took a shower and lay down in bed. In the darkness, the ceiling was a huge, unresolved question. The question was this: when does the spider begin its web, when does the dust fall, when do the cracks widen? The answer was my own consciousness. But my consciousness was scanning frequencies, jumping between all kinds of chaotic thoughts, yet unable to receive a clear signal. Somewhere in my heart, there was a dull, persistent ache, like a toothache.
It was then that I thought I heard someone call my name. A voice so distant, yet so clear it was beyond doubt. I sat up, fumbling for my phone in the dark. It was like a cold, smooth, black slate. When the screen lit up, the light left a fleeting sear on my retina. My habit of keeping WeChat on silent had caused me to miss many things. This was from my cousin-in-law, someone I rarely spoke with. I called her back.
The moment the call connected, a strange static filled the receiver, as if our conversation had to traverse several parallel dimensions. After a few meaningless pleasantries came a silence that was unnaturally long. In that silence, I could clearly hear the ticking of a clock on her end, and the sound of her own dry swallow.
A premonition, like a small, cold lizard, crept silently up my spine.
"Your mother… she…" Her voice was a string pulled too taut. "She was in a car accident. I heard your dad on the phone with my mother-in-law." There was a snap. The string broke. The sound pierced my eardrum. The world hit pause.
I sat on the bed, feeling myself turn into a piece of furniture, a chair or a table, devoid of all sensation. I seem to have asked, "Is it serious?" but I have no memory of which part of my body the voice came from. The sentence felt as if it had been formed by the vibrations of the air in the room itself.
"It might be… not good," she said. "You should probably come back tomorrow."
After hanging up, the darkness enveloped me again. But this time, the nature of the darkness was completely different. It was no longer a mere absence of light, but a substance with mass and weight. I lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
An image surfaced in my mind, unbidden. It was my mother's face. She was standing in the kitchen, wearing an apron. She was looking at me, as if saying something, but I couldn't hear a word. It was an incredibly clear, color-saturated, silent film clip. The filter was applied too heavily; the colors were so saturated they made me want to vomit.
My hands flailed, trying to tear through the boundary of space-time, to touch her, to hear her. But in the entire universe, besides the sound of my own heartbeat and the occasional insect batting against the window screen, there was no reply. The world had become a giant, exquisitely designed phone booth, and I would never receive the call I wanted. I had become, in the eyes of the pedestrians, the one waiting for Godot.