life of 2
He said I couldn’t do it, couldn’t reach that goal.
On the subway home, I replayed last night’s conversation by the river in my mind, then looked up at my reflection in the window. The exhaustion in my eyes was unmistakable, as if a virtual notification above my head flashed: “Battery below 30%.”
To avoid unnecessary mistakes and to “do the right thing,” I switched to power-saving mode, activating an information filter system to block out irrelevant worries.
To improve the quality of our conversations, I realized I needed to speak carefully, to think before I spoke. This reminded me of the father at the restaurant yesterday who told his daughter, “You need to think before you speak.” The little girl, holding my favorite matcha sundae, listened intently.
He probably thinks I won’t leave on my own, which is why he feels free to ignore me so blatantly. He said, “I always know what you’re going to say or do next. Every move you make is predictable to me. I don’t need to put in any extra effort. And you—you don’t really like anything besides me. Whatever I say goes, so we’re bound to break up eventually.”
No, I don’t want that. We won’t break up.
As midnight approached, I felt the same exhaustion as yesterday. Nothing had progressed, and I still couldn’t sleep peacefully.
It’s been less than two weeks since we moved in together. While we’ve added some satisfying touches to our shared space, bringing a sense of security, there have also been many arguments and unpleasant moments.
I think I need to actively maintain some distance, to avoid falling back into that vortex that makes me lose myself. He probably doesn’t want to live with an empty shell either.
To protect my soul and not let him completely influence me, I need to have more meaningful conversations—with myself and with others. Only then can two souls coexist in the same space.
He officially started his new job today. When he came home and showed me the employee handbook, I murmured a response, and he placed it on the shelf. I was busy tidying up and didn’t respond properly. I wondered, how would a normal person react? Give a big hug? Say congratulations? Buy some treats? Tell a joke? Or a bad joke? Is it too cold to not react at all? But I haven’t learned how to sincerely congratulate others, especially after he once said I’d never get into his company. I should be happy for him, but I’m too caught up in my own abyss to feel anything. I really want to jump for joy at his promotion, but I’m too narrow-minded. Maybe his promotion was expected, but he still deserves a positive response! I’m too negative, and I’ve wronged him. He’s already snoring, exhausted. I’m too heartless, not caring about him at all, even though he’s the person I love deeply. What’s wrong with me? What’s really wrong with me? Do I only care about my own feelings? I’m terrible!
I don’t know how to respond to his emotions.
Before he kills me, I’ll kill him first.
Every day when he comes home, he watches funny videos and gaming streams. To avoid the noise, I retreat to the bathroom to read. Today, there wasn’t much of a fight. I’ve learned to ask him to turn the volume down, to make suggestions for my own comfort. He laughs, turns it down when I’m near, and turns it back up when I’m far. I jump on the bed to tease him, but after a few rounds, I give up. I need to save time. As precious as these playful moments are, I’d rather finish my book. So I return to the bathroom and finish Otsuichi’s The Poem of the Sun.
I try to stay quiet. Whenever I speak, I’m often scolded for saying unexpected things. So I choose to speak less, and there’s not much to share anyway. Tonight is especially quiet—just reading, journaling, the sound of his videos, occasional grumbles, and silly laughs. This world is quiet, comfortable. The noise in my head is gone, and my headache has faded.
He finishes his videos, turns off the light, and goes to bed. I whisper, “Asleep?” He doesn’t answer, already out. I start to worry—is he angry? Is it because I didn’t talk, because I ignored him? I spiral into pointless overthinking. I told myself to think before speaking, but now I don’t even know what to say. I feel sad again. This isn’t right. I should do something, make some interesting suggestions to warm up our relationship, not leave it like this. Wuwuwu.
More than once, I’ve felt Otsuichi’s reflections on the meaning of life in his writing. In his world, loneliness and death are the norm, making any signs of life especially precious.
“I once watched him assemble a sailboat, and remembering that process, I repeated each step. In this way, I also assembled a sailboat.”
I think I’m learning to love and become a whole person in the same way. The Poem of the Sun is like the post-apocalyptic town in Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou, peaceful and serene, composing the most sincere love poem in an era where humans have disappeared.
He is the most important person in my life, at least for now.
Because we often argue and get heated, we’ve both developed mouth ulcers. His is worse—his tongue is so swollen he can’t speak clearly. We’ve both taken metronidazole tablets, hoping they’ll help in a couple of days…
I pay too much attention to him. Even his smallest actions are etched in my mind, like a new mother constantly aware of her child. He just rearranged the pillows and blankets on the bed, settling into his favorite prone position to watch Hatsune Miku music videos.
Today, while surfing the web, I learned: people are the sum of their relationships. Social design emphasizes designing relationships, not just products. Relationships are indeed crucial. In life, many relationships confuse me, forcing me to understand others while figuring out how to reshape these connections. It’s precisely because of my dissatisfaction with many relationships that I’ve started exploring social design.
I’m extremely insecure about my own thoughts and feelings, unable to make subjective or objective judgments about things. Before forming my own opinion, I always reference others’ views first. I’m afraid to voice my thoughts, scared they won’t meet expectations and I’ll be criticized. I can’t be sincere or direct, nor can I face my own feelings. This isn’t right. This is not the right thing to do.
In the winter of 2021, after we decided to move in together, I wrote this diary during an argument. We had agreed to go clubbing on Saturday night, calling it our last night before breaking up—I would leave Beijing, start a new life in Shanghai, and we’d never see each other again. But by the end of that Saturday night, the decision was overturned, and this cycle repeated. Maybe I haven’t seriously faced my own life for a long time.