By the time complete darkness fell, I finally dragged my exhausted body home.
It was later than expected—thanks to the evening rush hour. The bus was packed like sardines; the roads choked with cars.
The hulking bus inched forward in the traffic jam. I, a small figure among chaotic passengers, stood on tiptoe.
At my breaking point, I silently questioned the gods above.
*If gods truly exist...*
Why are there so many people in our city?
In our country?
On our planet?
Humanity has become an unnatural lifeform—overwhelming the environment, crushing other species’ habitats, and suffocating our own.
To survive, we’ve shackled nature’s freedom to our will.
Loose sand hardened into towering buildings.
Soft earth paved into waterproof roads.
Rivers were forced into rigid channels; marshes carved into neat rice paddies.
Green land draped in patchwork skirts; blue skies stained with ink-gray haze.
If Earth were a person, it would be terminally ill.
Rivers—its hardened arteries. Wetlands—kidneys choked with stones. Land—skin rotting. Sky—clouded eyes.
And humans?
Malignant cancer cells.
Each of us: mutated cells turned intelligent, defying genetic limits to grow endlessly. Our cities and towns? Tumors blooming in every nutrient-rich corner of Earth.
Dense, ugly growths everywhere. Disgusting!
This is metastasis—the so-called "population explosion" since the Industrial Revolution.
When cancer patients die, families sometimes keep their cells alive in petri dishes as memorials.
Cancer cells divide infinitely with nutrients. They never die.
But if Earth dies of cancer... where will we, its cells, find a new dish?
Our extinction is inevitable.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe the day after. But the day after that? It *will* come.
...
At least I survived today. Young as I am, I can still endure this cramped existence.
Though my head spun slightly—heatstroke?
Shaking my dazed head, I finally sloshed out the bus’s back door like water draining from a human-packed tank.
Off the main road, I turned into a quiet alley. The thinning crowd let me breathe again.
Weary, I nodded to the security guard fanning himself at the community gate. Then I trudged toward my apartment building.
I glanced up at my fifth-floor window. Pitch black.
My heart stayed calm. *Surprise waiting again, I bet.*
I climbed slowly, pushed the door—it was locked normally.
*Did Mom and Jiang Muqing go out?* I pulled out my key. The lock turned easily—no extra bolts.
*Someone’s home.* Bitter smile. *Yep. "Surprise" confirmed.*
The moment I opened the door, a shadow shot from the darkness. It scrambled up my leg, leaped into my arms.
Jiang Muqing’s black cat—brought from her old home.
"Meow... meow..."
Its fluffy body rubbed against my chest. Claws dug playfully into my shirt.
Bared teeth. Like it was mad at me.
*Hungry?*
Annoyed. Every day I feed its owner, *and* trek to pet stores for its food. Jiang Muqing’s money covered costs, but my time? Irreplaceable.
I flicked on the lights. They worked—no tripped circuit breaker this time.
*What’s the "surprise"?* I scanned the living room.
Dinner sat on the table: steaming dishes now cooled, colors still vibrant.
*Jiang Muqing’s cooking?* That terrifying taste haunted my memory. Her "kindness"? I’d rather let her cat suffer.
I dropped a piece of braised pork into the cat’s bowl, set it down to eat.
It devoured the meat eagerly. *Starving enough to eat anything.*
I tossed a bigger piece. It gobbled it up happily.
Unlike me, the cat wouldn’t fake a "delicious" face for Jiang Muqing’s sake.
*Wait...*
Curious, I picked up a piece myself. Took a bite.
?!
"Delicious!"
The words slipped out.
Melt-in-your-mouth pork, rich but not greasy.
Cold now—but two minutes in the microwave? Perfect.
Jiang Muqing had real talent. Yesterday’s disastrous cooking (Mom’s "glamorous outside, rotten inside" style) was gone. Today? Flawless inside and out.
*Where is she?* Someone’s home.
I stood by the table, scanning dark corners: unlit kitchen, shadowed hallways...
*Where?*
...
Then I saw her.
Curled beside the shoe cabinet near the door. Knees hugged to her chest, head buried. A tired girl hiding in the corner.
Mom must be out. Jiang Muqing cooked alone. Not a single chopstick mark on the untouched food.
*She waited for me...*
*Idiot.*
Guilt pricked my chest. *Just eat when it’s ready. Why wait for me? I never said when I’d be back.*
First—get her off the cold floor.
"Hey, Jiang Muqing. Bed if you’re sleepy."
I shook her shoulder.
"Fan..."
She lifted her head, drowsy.
"Get up. Floors are cold—even in summer."
My voice softened.
"Fan’s back!"
Sleep vanished from her face. She uncurled her legs with a jerk, springing up.
Her cramped muscles wobbled. She swayed.
I caught her.
"You okay...?"
Guilt tightened my throat.
"Fine!"
She steadied herself, beaming.
Her joy made my chest ache. *You shouldn’t look at me like that. I don’t deserve it.*
"But... my carefully copied recipes..." She stared sadly at the cold dishes. "Auntie said these are your favorites."
"Sorry."
Her warmth only deepened my unease.
"What’s wrong, Fan?"
She tilted her head.
"Don’t... do so much for me. I—"
I kept my eyes down.
I couldn’t take more of her affection. It’d only deepen her dependence. Harm her recovery.
"Do you hate my cooking? I’ll try harder!"
Her voice brimmed with determination.
"You’re already... amazing."
I forced a smile.
...
*Just...*
*No matter how warm the gesture—*
*It always goes cold here.*
