Yueyue, who is like a dragon whose head is seen but whose tail is never seen.
I'm already an "old hand" at adjusting time zones in autumn.
Her strategy was simple—stay awake until she couldn't stay awake any longer, then go to sleep. So her bedtime and wake-up time were like a clock being slowly turned back, delayed by a few hours each day.
During the day, she forced herself to go out. She would go to the department to find some sense of belonging, even though there was nothing of real importance to do, she would still sit in a cubicle and write a few lines of research plan; or she would take her laptop to the library, stare at a page of literature for half an hour, and in the end, she would remember nothing.
Sometimes she would simply eat near the school, then stop by the supermarket on her way back and grab a few bags of bread and milk. The refrigerator was empty, and the dishes looked brand new even after days—she had hardly ever cooked.
She often opens her email, her finger hovering over the screen. The phrase "I am back," though only three words, just won't send. She types it, then deletes it. The blank chat window glows on the screen in the middle of the night, as if mocking her hesitation.
The closer she got, the less she knew how to face him. She hadn't found the right way to greet him, so she kept putting it off.
Strangely enough, four days passed, and as her biological clock gradually returned to normal, she and her new roommate "Yueyue" never actually met face-to-face.
At first, she thought it was jet lag, but later she gradually realized that the other person's schedule could only be described with one word—random. The person was like the wind moving through the room, leaving only warmth and no shadow, truly embodying the saying: "A dragon appears but not its tail."
Day 1.
She went to bed at 2 p.m. and didn't wake up hungry until after 1 a.m. Just as she was about to go downstairs to make instant noodles, she suddenly heard a soft click as the door across the hall was pushed open. Then came the sound of careful footsteps. When she stepped on the wooden stairs, the floorboards made a soft creaking sound, which continued down the stairs one after another.
Then, the doorknob was slowly turned, and the door closed gently. A breeze drifted in through the crack, carrying a faint scent of citrus shampoo, lingering briefly in the dark hallway before dissipating. The room returned to silence. She then realized—the other person had just left.
the next day.
At noon, she returned with takeout. The house was eerily quiet; the bathroom mirror was still fogged up, and the tiles were warm, carrying the scent of shower gel. The door to the opposite room was ajar, and deep, even breathing could be heard from inside.
She couldn't help but chuckle softly, thinking—this new roommate seemed more jet-lagged than she was. So she ate quietly, not even daring to tie the trash bag tightly, afraid of making a "rustling" sound.
The third day.
She forced herself to stay awake until 5 p.m. before finally falling asleep. In her half-awake state, she heard the soft click of a key against a lock, followed by the click of the cabinet door closing, two short beeps from the microwave, and the faint smell of curry in the air, along with the cold air brought in by her coat.
She turned over, then quickly sank back down. Sometime during the night, she seemed to hear the door gently closing. When she opened her eyes at four in the morning, the sounds of birdsong and the roar of a garbage truck filled the room, confirming that the other person had indeed gone out again the previous night.
Day four.
She finally got back to her normal routine—going to bed at 8 p.m. and getting up at 6 a.m. When she went downstairs, there were two clean, upside-down cups in the sink, still dripping water. A hastily written note was pressed against the refrigerator door by a magnet; only numbers like "6 a.m." and "4 p.m." were legible.
A pair of sneakers, recently taken off, were now on the shoe rack, their soles still dusty. Panqiu knew her roommate had come back while she was sleeping and was probably catching up on sleep now.
I haven't seen the real person for several days, but the clues keep piling up, like a chaotic puzzle. I tiptoed out at one in the morning, the bathroom was still damp at noon, and I went back again at nine in the evening. Piecing together the scattered clues, it all looks eerie.
She couldn't help but lie in bed and ponder: —This sleep schedule is so strange. Six o'clock, four o'clock on the sticky notes... Is she a nocturnal animal, or does she have a particularly rich nightlife?
An image automatically popped into my mind: someone walking out of a bar in high heels, still holding an unfinished cocktail in their hand, the sky just beginning to lighten, then yawning as they head back to their dorm to catch up on sleep.
Panqiu couldn't help but laugh at herself, shaking her head: That's too exaggerated, it can't be that bad.
Suddenly, the "Sea King" that Wei had mentioned appeared like a barrage of comments, impossible to stop.
She snorted and pulled the blanket over her head: "Fine, he's like a dragon whose head is seen but not its tail, which does fit the 'Sea King' character."
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