Yuanye Wei leaned against the arm of the sofa, the back of his head wedged into the angle between the cushion and the armrest. His eyes were open, but his gaze wasn't resting on anything in the living room.
"Last night I dreamed the company was still there." His voice was hoarse, scraped out of his throat. "The blinds in the office were pulled shut, and sunlight was leaking through the gaps.
The contracts were on the desk. That fountain pen was in the pen holder. The suppliers weren't blocking the door, and the employees hadn't left. After I woke up, I couldn't remember the details. I only knew I'd dreamed it."
Tsukago sat down on the arm of the sofa beside him. "It doesn't matter if you can't remember. The fact that you dreamed it means it's still there."
He turned his face toward her. The red veins in his eyes were fewer than last time. His eyelids were no longer swollen. He looked at Tsukago as if waiting for her to say one more thing. But Tsukago didn't continue. She just pulled the squirrel out of her apron pocket and set it next to his elbow. The squirrel sank softly into the cushion, like a gentle, empty shell.
After a while, he spoke again. This time his voice was less hoarse, and the gaps between the words were shorter.
"Earlier, I fell asleep on the floor. I didn't dream. When I woke up, my head didn't hurt. That decision I'd never been able to make—in the dream, it was easy. As if I didn't need to think at all."
I walked over to the single chair diagonally across from him and sat down. Tsukago slid off the arm of the sofa and crouched in front of him. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"What was the decision."
He pulled his gaze away from Tsukago's face and looked at his own knees. The second hand of the wall clock swept half a circle. A bird called outside the window, then fell quiet. The squirrel slid from the crook of his elbow and landed on the sofa cushion, its soft body resting against his waist. He looked down at the squirrel. Its black bean eyes were aimed at his chin.
"Before, I didn't dare say those two words. Saying them would mean admitting defeat. But not admitting defeat, the company still disappeared. Not admitting defeat, I still couldn't sleep. Not admitting defeat, even my dreams were torturing me."
He reached out and picked the squirrel up from the sofa cushion, placing it on his knee. His finger pressed down on the squirrel's tail, the fluffy tip poking out between his fingers. Tsukago didn't rush him. She just shifted the hand on his shoulder, pressing her palm flat against his shoulder blade, and pressed down lightly. His shoulder sank half an inch.
A long time passed before he answered. Long enough for the wind outside the window to stop and start again. Long enough for the second hand on the wall clock in the corner of the living room to complete a full circle.
"Give up."
When those two words landed, the living room was silent. The TV was off. The second hand on the wall clock was still moving, but moving softly. The bird outside the window had stopped calling. His shoulders didn't collapse. His spine didn't curve. After he spoke those two words, his posture was identical to what it had been before. As if those two words hadn't fallen out of his mouth—they had been unloaded from some part of him that had been wound tight for far too long.
He leaned against the arm of the sofa. The squirrel was still on his knee, its tail poking out between his fingers.
He said that before, every day when he opened his eyes, there were debts and lawsuits. Every time his phone buzzed, his stomach hurt. Every time the doorbell rang, his palms sweated. The day the suppliers blocked his door, he sat in the dark listening to the shouting outside for an entire afternoon. Back then, he still believed that if he just held on a little longer, thought a little harder, he would find a way.
Later, the way never came. The company was gone. His sleep was gone too.
The creditors came one by one. He pulled the blinds down in his office and sat in the dark listening to the shouting outside for an entire afternoon. He waited until the door closed before he cried.
"Until you told me I didn't need to think about anything. That's when I slept through the night for the first time." He lifted his face from the cushion. "What you gave me—even if it's temporary, even if it's fake—I want it. I know there are some things I'll have to face eventually, but not now. Right now, I just want to sleep. Right now, I just want to lie here. Right now, I just want to not think about anything. Escape routes, whatever—I've blocked them all myself. I will never go back, back to that kind of life."
He picked the squirrel up from his knee and placed it on the arm of the sofa, facing the window. The squirrel's black bean eyes reflected the light from outside the window.
——Giving up isn't admitting defeat. It's letting go of a stone you've been clutching so long you didn't realize your fingers had gone stiff. When you were clutching it, you thought the stone was a weapon. When you let go, you realize the stone was just a stone.
Tsukago pulled her hand back from his shoulder. She stood up and walked to the window. The sunlight outside cast her shadow across the floor, stretching from the edge of the sofa all the way to the leg of the coffee table. She turned around, leaned against the windowsill, and looked at me.
"Sister, when he said give up just now, his voice was louder than when he used to say but. But is something you swallow down. Give up is something you spit out."
"Spit it out and you feel lighter. That pile of worries has been fermenting in his stomach for thirty years."
"If it's been fermenting, then it's wine."
"Then right now he's just woken up with a hangover. No wonder his head doesn't hurt anymore."
She held back a laugh, walked over from the windowsill, and crouched down in front of the sofa. She picked the squirrel up from the arm of the sofa and placed it back on Yuanye Wei's knee. The squirrel's tail hung over the edge of his knee, the fluffy tip swaying gently.
In the livestream frame, half of Yuanye Wei's face was hidden behind the back of the sofa. On the half that was visible, the corners of his mouth held no upward or downward curve. They just rested there, very flat. Not suppression, not numbness—the kind of flatness that comes when something has been unloaded.
He closed his eyes. The hollow his skull had pressed into the sofa cushion was still there, identical in shape to the one from last time.
The difference was that this time he didn't slide down, and his shoulders didn't creep up toward his ears. His breathing sank from his chest to his belly, the rhythm slowing, so slow that his chest rose only once in the time it took the second hand to circle the clock.
His hand rested beside the squirrel, his fingers naturally curved. The bite marks around his nails were slowly growing back.
A bird called outside the window. He didn't open his eyes. Before, when he heard a bird call, he'd think of the emails he hadn't replied to. Now it was just a bird calling.