Ruoqing was woken up by her phone buzzing.
Not the alarm—the alarm was set for seven. The screen said 4:42 a.m. She squinted at the caller ID. It read "Xu Ranhua," with a little orange dinosaur sticker as the contact photo. Ranhua had set it herself. Ruoqing had never bothered to change it back.
She hesitated for two seconds, then answered.
"…What."
Silence on the other end, then a long, hard sniff—the sound of someone swallowing tears and snot all at once.
"Ruoqing." Ranhua's voice was hoarse, scraped raw the way voices get after crying for a long time. "Can I come over."
Not really a question. The phrasing was, but Ruoqing could tell—this was a call made after the decision was already done.
She sat up. The blanket slid to her waist. The room was dark, only the phone screen lighting her face, making her expression look cold. Her voice wasn't.
"I sent you the address, right."
"Yeah."
"Come in through the alley next to the convenience store by the entrance. Second building, fifth floor. Elevator's broken, you'll have to take the stairs."
"Okay."
The call ended. Ruoqing stared at the screen for a few seconds, then set the phone back down by her pillow. She didn't lie back down. She got up, walked to the bathroom, turned on the light, and stood in front of the mirror for a moment looking at the face there, which had no particular expression.
Her brown hair was a mess. The circles under her eyes were deep. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, then grabbed a towel and dried off without much care.
Back in the room, she kicked the clothes scattered on the floor under the bed, gathered the instant noodle bowl and empty cans from the coffee table into a plastic bag, tied it off, and dropped it by the door. Not cleaning—just hiding the worst of it.
She thought for a moment, then dug a reasonably clean blanket and a spare pillow out of the closet and stacked them on the couch. The couch was small, the kind where two people sitting together meant shoulders touching, but Ranhua could probably fit.
When she was done, she leaned against the window and smoked one last cigarette.
The cigarette pack was empty. She crushed it flat and dropped it in the trash. She'd have to buy a new one tomorrow.
About twenty minutes later, footsteps in the hallway. Not the rhythm of one person walking—there was a suitcase wheel rolling over tile mixed in, a low rumbling sound, unusually clear in the quiet corridor.
Three soft knocks at the door. Careful, like she didn't want to wake the neighbors.
Ruoqing opened it.
Xu Ranhua stood in the doorway wearing a cream-colored zip-up hoodie, zipped all the way up, hood down. Her hair was in a lopsided ponytail with a few strands loose against her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose was red. Her lips had a dry, cracked line across them, like she'd been biting them for a long time.
Behind her she was dragging a twenty-inch suitcase. Pink, with the corners worn white.
They looked at each other for a second.
Ranhua spoke first, still hoarse: "I brought two beers."
She held up the plastic bag in her other hand. Inside, along with the beers, was a bag of shrimp crackers.
Ruoqing stepped aside without saying anything. Ranhua dragged the suitcase in, and the wheel caught on the threshold with a thunk. She stopped in the entryway, looked down, and took off her shoes, lining them up neatly next to Ruoqing's slippers.
That detail hit Ruoqing somewhere she didn't expect. Even now, she remembered to line up her shoes.
"Sit down," Ruoqing said, nodding toward the couch.
Ranhua didn't sit right away. She stood there and looked around the studio apartment—under six hundred square feet, a twin bed, a wardrobe, a coffee table, a mini fridge, a few cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. Dark gray curtains pulled tight, just a thin line of streetlight leaking in at the edges.
"This place is really small," Ranhua said.
"Yeah."
"Smaller than I thought."
"It's cheap."
Ranhua finally sat down. The couch let out a dull groan—the springs were probably on their way out. She set the plastic bag on the coffee table, then wrapped both arms around herself like she was cold.
Ruoqing went to the mini fridge, took out a bottle of water, and handed it over. Ranhua took it but didn't open it, just held it.
About a minute of quiet.
Then Ranhua started talking, her voice flat, like she was describing something that had happened to someone else:
"He said I sit at home all day, don't work, just spend his money playing games."
Ruoqing didn't respond. She just sat down next to her. The couch was as cramped as expected—their shoulders pressed together.
"I said fine, I'll go find a job. He said what about the kid." Ranhua was looking down, picking at the label on the water bottle, tearing it off in small strips. "I said your mom could help watch him. He got angry. Said I was passing off my responsibilities."
She paused.
"Then he threw my phone."
Ruoqing's eyes went to Ranhua's hand. She noticed the crack running across the screen—from the upper left corner all the way to the lower right, like a scar that had healed over.
"Did you get it fixed?"
"Put a screen protector on it. Still works." Ranhua smiled a little. It looked worse than crying. "He left right after. Never came back. I waited until four, called him, he didn't pick up, so I just…"
She didn't finish.
Ruoqing reached over and took the plastic bag, pulled out a beer, and popped it open. White foam rose from the top. She handed it to Ranhua, then opened the other one and took a sip.
The beer was warm. It was a twenty-minute walk from the convenience store. Whatever cold it had was long gone. But Ranhua took it and drank a big gulp, too fast—she choked, coughed several times.
"Slow down," Ruoqing said.
Ranhua wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes were going red again.
"Ruoqing, am I just useless."
Ruoqing didn't answer that. She opened the shrimp crackers and set them between the two of them.
"Eat something first."
Ranhua looked at her, and the tears finally came—one at a time, dropping onto the sleeve of her hoodie, leaving small dark spots. She didn't make any sound. Just kept crying, like a faucet with a worn-out washer that wouldn't shut all the way off.
Ruoqing didn't hug her. Didn't say "it's okay" or "it'll get better." She just sat there beside her, shoulder to shoulder, drinking the warm beer in slow sips, occasionally reaching for a shrimp cracker.
Outside the window, the dark was starting to shift. Not light yet—just the black thinning out a little, like a drop of water in ink.
Ranhua cried for about ten minutes, then gradually stopped. She sniffled, wiped her face on her sleeve, and leaned her head against Ruoqing's shoulder.
"Can I stay a few days."
"Blanket's right next to you."
Ranhua blinked, turned, and saw the folded blanket and pillow stacked on the armrest. She blinked again. Then she let out a short, nasal laugh.
"You already had it ready."
Ruoqing took a sip of her beer and didn't answer.
The alarm had less than two hours left. She glanced at her phone, thought about it, and pushed it back fifteen minutes.
That was the most tenderness she had to give.
Ranhua had already closed her eyes against her shoulder, her breathing slowly evening out. Her lashes still held a few undried tears, catching the faint light from the phone screen for just a moment.
Ruoqing didn't move. She was afraid of waking her.
So she just sat there, shoulder going a little sore under the weight, finishing the beer slowly, setting the empty can down on the coffee table without a sound.
The light at the edge of the curtains shifted from the orange-yellow of the streetlamps to the gray-blue that comes just before dawn.
She thought: I need to buy cigarettes tomorrow.
Then: what about Ranhua's kid.
But she didn't ask. Some questions could wait until morning.