Desolate Night Talks

Chapter 1: What Is Meaning?

Late at Night

The apartment was lit only by a cold, sterile glow that quietly cast itself onto the gray-white walls. The female student gently pushed open the door, and the soft click as it closed sounded jarringly loud in the silence. Her steps were slow, her shoulders drooped weakly, as though struggling under an invisible weight. She carelessly tossed her backpack onto the floor by the entrance, her face etched with a numb exhaustion.

This was the end of her day—an ordinary, monotonous day. No surprises, no excitement, just endless assignments, noisy classrooms, and the oppressive heaviness on her chest. Every day was like this. It felt as though something essential was being drained from her amidst her seemingly busy life, leaving a void inside her that grew larger and deeper as the night wore on.

Across the living room, near the coffee table, sat a blurred figure in the dim light. It was her roommate, a man a few years older than her. She had never met his wife, though he occasionally mentioned her—as if describing someone who would never actually be present in his life. He was always reserved, his gaze indifferent, his face marked by a weariness she couldn’t quite decipher. Work seemed to have hollowed him out, yet he never complained, as if it was simply a natural part of his existence.

She hesitated for a moment and glanced up at him. The man nodded, motioning for her to sit down.

Neither of them spoke at first, as though waiting for some unspoken signal, or perhaps savoring the brief quiet. Finally, she was the one to break the silence.

“Today was exhausting,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

The man didn’t look up, holding a cup of warm tea in his hands. Steam rose gently from the surface, dissipating into the air. He took a casual sip and then responded, his tone light, “If you’re tired, go to bed early.”

She let out a small laugh, filled with self-mockery. “Every day is the same. It feels like I close my eyes, open them again, and nothing’s changed… but I don’t know what else to do.”

The man didn’t answer her question. His gaze lingered on the teacup for a few moments, as though lost in thought—or perhaps entirely indifferent. Finally, he asked, in a detached manner, “Do you think this kind of life has any meaning?”

She froze for a moment, lowering her head into silence. She didn’t know how to answer such a question. Meaning? Sometimes, she asked herself the same thing. Why was she working so hard? In this unfamiliar city, she felt like an exiled bird, struggling to fly through narrow gaps, her life weightless, as if she were chasing an illusory cloud.

“If there’s no meaning, then what’s the point of keeping on?” she softly countered, her tone tinged with melancholy.

The man didn’t reply immediately. His gaze shifted from the teacup to her, calm yet deeply contemplative. His eyes darkened under the lamplight, becoming even more inscrutable. “Maybe,” he finally said, “the idea of meaning is just an illusion people create to deceive themselves. Reality is what it is—no matter how hard we struggle, it doesn’t change.”

She fell silent. His answer felt like a dull thorn lodged in some sensitive corner of her heart—not painful, yet impossible to ignore. An unease stirred within her, as though provoking a primal urge to resist, but she quickly suppressed it. She knew this man, perhaps the only person she could talk to, exuded a detachment and calmness that made him feel irreparably distant.

“And what about you?” she suddenly asked, her tone probing. “Living so indifferently—are you truly satisfied?”

A faint, mocking smile curved his lips, as though he had just heard a foolish question. In a low voice, he replied, “Satisfied? Who in this world is truly satisfied? Satisfaction is just an excuse people use to numb themselves.”

A chill ran through her, as if she had brushed against some untouchable, brutal truth. It made her feel profoundly alone, yet she couldn’t escape it. She said no more, simply lowering her gaze to stare at her reflection in the teacup. The tea shimmered faintly under the light, distorting her face into something both familiar and strange, as though it belonged to another world.

The night deepened, and the air in the apartment grew colder. Neither of them moved. They sat in silence, like two isolated islands separated by surging waves, unable yet compelled to regard each other.

“Get some rest,” the man’s voice broke the stillness again. He stood, nodded at her, and turned toward his room.

She watched his silhouette disappear down the hallway, and an inexplicable weariness suddenly welled up inside her. Perhaps he was right—perhaps everything in this world was merely a web of lies people spun for themselves. But if that were true, how could she go on? She didn’t want to believe his words, yet she couldn’t find a reason to refute them.

The cold light illuminated the empty room. She stared at the shadows on the wall, slowly slipping into a trance.