About My Room
It’s still dark outside, and the night view of Beijing’s CBD from my window always makes me feel like I’m living in The Truman Show. Not far below, there’s a construction site with a blinding light that stays on all night. Once, when I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I was nearly blinded by it.
I dreamed I was looking for an apartment in Shanghai and came across a peculiar three-story villa. The first floor felt like a circus dormitory, with uncles wearing big red noses, kids running around, and ordinary office workers—a lively chaos. I went to check out the attic, my favorite kind of space, and after some thought, decided to move in. I told the landlord I was still renting a place in Beijing, which wasn’t cheap, and asked if they could offer a discount.
I rolled around on the bed a few times, scattering my belongings across the room. It wasn’t tidy, but it felt warm and personal—a space that was truly mine. The landlord mentioned there was an embassy district and cultural center nearby, similar to Beijing’s 798 or Sanlitun, perfect for weekend outings.
Then I woke up.
I suppose I had this dream because I just renewed my lease. In the two years since graduating, I’ve been working in Beijing but have never rented a place for more than a year. The longest I’ve stayed anywhere is six months, moving every quarter.
There are many reasons: frequent job changes, roommates who don’t clean, or issues with the apartments themselves. Once, I lived on the top floor during the rainy season, and the ceiling not only leaked but also started peeling. Neither the agent nor the property management could help, as the constant rain made repairs impossible—anything fixed would just get ruined again. So, in this so-called “luxuriously renovated” room, I watched the ceiling peel and listened to the rain drip for over a month. When the rainy season finally ended, a repairman fixed the ceiling, and the property management patched up the roof’s waterproofing. With only a month left on the lease, I sublet the room and moved into a serviced apartment with my partner, who had just returned from abroad.
That was my first time living with someone, and I documented every detail of our life in the small apartment in my diary. The lease was for four months, and I remember sneaking out during work hours to view the place. We both liked it and decided to give it a try. Later, after a fight, we broke up, and he moved out a month before the lease ended. I then moved to a regular residential complex nearby, sharing with another roommate for four months. My luck wasn’t great—the roommate wasn’t clean. At the time, I couldn’t afford a place with a private bathroom, so I gritted my teeth and focused on job interviews, hoping to move somewhere better.
While interviewing and apartment hunting, I eventually found a place near the CBD. After calculating the split rent, it was manageable—not much more expensive than my previous shared arrangements—so I moved in with my partner, who I had briefly broken up with but then reconciled with.
As always, I chose this place mainly for the view. I’ve always been obsessed with having large windows. From my room, I can see the city lights at night and hear the rustling of leaves during the day.
It often reminds me of what Maeve wrote in Sex Education Season 3:
“In ten years' time, I want to live in a house with big windows. I want the house to be large enough to have a kitchen table with four chairs, but not too roomy to ever feel the depth of my aloneness....”
The window in this room faces the CBD skyscrapers, and the night lights are particularly stunning. During holidays, you can even see light shows. The room is furnished entirely with solid wood, designed without a main light source but with warm LED strips and spotlights, creating a cozy yet modern atmosphere. I later found out that this place was originally a well-known design studio’s project to create a work-life community, but the project fell through and was taken over by a long-term rental apartment brand.
It’s a 22-square-meter studio with a linear layout. While it doesn’t have a fridge or washing machine (there’s a shared kitchen and laundry room), the thoughtful design is evident everywhere. For example, the bathroom uses a multi-layer anti-odor drain I’ve never seen before, and the solid wood desk by the window shows clear tree rings, along with wear and fading, giving it a vintage LVC jeans-like charm. The square power strip in the corner bears the designer’s name and the Red Dot Design Award logo.
Next to the desk is an L-shaped sofa, always piled with clothes and jackets—this seems to be the sofa’s default use. My partner is a minimalist but is relatively tolerant of this, probably because the sofa isn’t very comfortable—it’s too cramped. When tired, we just lie down on the bed. The space is too limited to add a larger sofa (it makes me realize how luxurious having a living room is, and how living room culture has slowly faded with the rise of mobile internet).
This time, I renewed the lease for five months, thinking that paying quarterly would save some money, so I increased my credit card limit. Before submitting the order, I hesitated for a moment—after all, this isn’t a perfect home. It lacks a certain朴实感 (simplicity) of life.
On Friday night, I came home and stared at the wall, which was divided diagonally into blue and white sections. I couldn’t understand the color scheme or the division. Online, the pictures made it look a bit ugly, not matching my girly aesthetic. When I asked my partner, he explained that it was to divide functional zones: the blue section near the bed is the rest area, and the white section by the window is the work area. The deep blue wall by the sofa also indicates a rest zone. The diagonal division is purely for aesthetics.
It suddenly clicked—the sunlight during the day also falls diagonally on the work area’s wall!
Looking at the pile of clothes on the sofa, I suddenly felt the urge to tidy up and make better use of this secondary rest space. I desperately need a separate area! Thinking about all the things I could do here without the mess of the sofa, I found the motivation to clean up.
On the wall above the sofa is a rectangular metal light fixture that has always puzzled me. When I turned it on, I was nearly blinded again. After fiddling with it for a while, I still couldn’t figure out how to adjust the light. Finally, I asked my partner to take a look, and he discovered that the screw on the lamp cover was loose, causing the light to shoot straight up. Once tightened, the cover could be adjusted to control the light. It turns out this can be both a reading lamp and a mood light.
My eyes lit up, and I immediately cleared the clothes and clutter, lay down on the sofa, and began to experience my third state of being—somewhere between work and leisure.
As I write this, I realize I still don’t have a clear central idea I want to express. It’s only through writing that I’m slowly understanding my relationship with the space I’m in. I feel like I’m not just a tired office worker anymore—my state has improved slightly.
I remember one time when I had an unbearable headache. I came home, forced down some takeout, watched two episodes of a Japanese drama, and then fell asleep. Before that, I had clearly told my partner that I wasn’t feeling well, especially my head, and thankfully, he understood. Otherwise, he would usually want me to accompany him in doing things that didn’t have a specific goal but required me to respond to his needs in real time. For example, if he told a joke, I needed to laugh or say it wasn’t funny; if he made an important point, I needed to respond or argue with him. It wasn’t simple small talk but required mutual responsiveness to each other’s needs. If I didn’t give a normal reaction or didn’t respond without a reason, he would find it strange and even start an argument.
So, I started clearly expressing my physical condition, telling him I needed rest instead of forcing myself to accompany him. That night, I finally got enough sleep and felt slightly better.
But it was then that I began to realize how much I needed a space to be alone, a space where I didn’t have to respond to anyone at any moment. I just wanted to focus on myself and the present. Yet, such a need feels like a luxury to me.
Under the wooden table once sat a large cardboard box, which I later moved to the storage rack by the door. Inside the box are sealed away some decorations from my old room, along with LED light strips, independent magazines bought at art book fairs, books I’ve set aside and never read, poorly printed photos, and notebooks filled with who-knows-what. My present moment has been stored away in that useless box, never opened because I’ve never found a place to display its contents. Those useless things, perhaps, are what life is made of.
I no longer have the space to freely plaster pink and purple psychedelic LED light strips, nor do I have my mood board collage wall. The room I currently live in was designed by a professional designer, with clearly defined zones and a modern, cozy atmosphere. I think the design is great, but it’s still missing something.