Chapter 1: Chengdu at 2 AM
2:17 AM.
The night in Chengdu hasn't fully cooled down yet.
Outside the window are the faint lights of Shuangliu District. The sound of traffic on the Ring Expressway in the distance is like an unbroken thread, drifting in through the glass, dull and heavy, just like my heartbeat at this moment.
I'm sitting at the desk in my rental apartment, the computer screen glowing harshly. On the screen is the outsourced project I just revised—a small iOS tool for a startup. It's the third revision, and the client still says, "Just tweak it a bit more."
Thirty-three years old.
Unmarried, no girlfriend, no stable job.
Only piles of endless code, scattered orders waiting to be taken, and an old, worn-out rental apartment.
My name is Chen Mo—Mo, meaning "silent."
My friends say I live up to my name: quiet, dull, like a machine that only knows how to type code.
Only I know—I'm not silent because I want to be, but because I have nothing to say.
Everyone around me seems to be moving forward step by step.
Some of my college classmates have been promoted to management in big tech companies, some have started their own businesses, and the least successful ones have a stable job in a state-owned enterprise, married, and had kids. Their WeChat Moments are filled with the excitement of showing off their children, trips, and promotions.
Only me—I seem to be stuck in a loop in life.
Every morning I wake up, it's about finding orders, writing code, fixing bugs, and waiting for payment;
Every night I fall asleep, it's worrying about tomorrow's rent, next month's social security, and that line from my parents' phone calls: "Did you meet the girl from the blind date? How long are you going to keep picking and choosing?"
I close Xcode. The moment the screen goes dark, it reflects my own face.
Stubble has grown in, there are faint dark circles under my eyes, and my gaze is filled with a weariness that even I dislike.
Chengdu is a city perfect for retirement.
A slow pace, teahouses all over the street, an endless supply of hot pot and skewers, even the wind carries a lazy scent.
But this laziness has never belonged to people like me, struggling in the internet industry.
To others, Chengdu is poetry and distant lands;
To me, Chengdu is the morning rush on Tianfu Third Street, the lights in the software park that stay on until midnight, the oden at the 24-hour convenience store downstairs from my rental, and the rent that's deducted sharply on the 10th of every month.
I stand up and walk to the window.
The barbecue stall downstairs hasn't closed yet. The smell of oil and smoke drifts up, mixing with the summer night's heat.
Some young people are eating skewers and drinking beer by the road, their laughter loud enough to be heard from far away.
That's an age I can never go back to.
In my twenties, I was just like them—thinking the future was full of endless possibilities, thinking code could change the world, thinking by the age of 30, I would definitely have achieved success, married a beautiful wife, and bought a big house.
But when I really turned 33, I realized that most people's lives are ordinary, even a little messy.
I pour myself a glass of cold boiled water and take a sip. The coldness travels from my throat down to my stomach.
My phone lights up—it's a push notification from a blind date app, matching me with another girl.
I click in and look at her profile: 28 years old, a teacher, with requirements: "Owns a house and a car, stable job, emotionally stable."
I smile and close the page.
Someone like me—unemployed, doing odd outsourced jobs, no house or car, not even stable—can probably never meet those standards.
It's not that I don't want to find someone, but I'm really tired.
Tired of dealing with blind dates, tired of pretending to be someone I'm not, tired of explaining to people, "I'm not being lazy; it's just how this industry is."
Being a 33-year-old single man in Chengdu seems like an original sin.
My parents urge me, relatives ask me, friends persuade me, even the aunt who sells vegetables downstairs asks, "Young man, why aren't you married yet?"
But who knows—I don't want to get married just for the sake of getting married, don't want to find someone to just coexist with, don't want to trap my life in a marriage without love.
I just want to find someone who understands me—understands the hardship of writing code, understands my confusion at 33, understands that I don't want to compete fiercely, don't want to struggle, just want to live a peaceful and stable life.
But such a person is too hard to find.
I sit back at the computer and open a blank document.
Before, this document was filled with code, requirements, and bug records.
Today, I want to write something else.
Write something that belongs to me, write about the days of being a 33-year-old single man in Chengdu, write about the unspoken confusion, weariness, unwillingness, and a little bit of hope for the future.
Maybe this is another possibility for my life.
Not writing code, not taking outsourced jobs, not living for others' expectations.
But writing my own story, living my own life—even if I'm just a 33-year-old single man, living earnestly in Chengdu.
The sky outside is slowly turning pale.
Chengdu's mornings are always shrouded in a light mist, hazy and indistinct.
A new day is about to begin.
And my story—officially starts today.