English #
I know a netizen who, in a sense, I see as “another me in the world.”
We’ve barely spoken, but a strange sense of familiarity pierces right through the screen. The feeling she gives me is subtle, like a glass of warm water resting quietly in a corner of the world. Perhaps that’s the entrance to our inner sanctuary, a place where the colors of idealism aren’t easily washed away by reality.
I imagine that in real life, she must be a gentle person. But it seems this gentleness hasn’t been treated gently by the world around her. Her family doesn’t seem to understand her. Occasionally, I’d see a trace of loneliness in her social media posts: “Why does Mom just not get me?” She feels more comfortable at school than at home; that small, temporary community offers her more of a space to breathe than the harbor of her own blood relatives.
I can vaguely understand this loneliness of being misunderstood. What I relate to even more is that, during that period, we both coincidentally encountered inexplicably strange people who would invade the boundaries we so carefully protected with their offensive words. That feeling of powerlessness and anger was like a fine needle pricking the heart. I often wondered if this had something to do with our similar INFP personalities. People like us carry a world inside that is too vast and soft, so much so that the slightest brush with reality’s sharp edges is enough to cause us great pain.
She has a habit of posting her rambling thoughts on her social media feed. Those words are like sighs unheard in the dead of night, longing to be heard by someone, yet afraid of disturbing anyone. Several times, I saw a complaint she posted and was just about to type a comment, only to find that the post had already vanished. The screen was left blank, as if nothing had ever happened.
Recently, I think I’ve come to understand her loneliness, because I, too, have entered a similar “low-energy mode.” I’ve lost enthusiasm for many things and have become somewhat indifferent. But when something upsetting happens, the alarm bells in my heart still go off instantly. A while ago, I was organizing my phone’s photo album, trying to back up pictures to my computer. After fumbling through the steps, I was horrified to discover that the computer hadn’t copied anything, but the original files on my phone had been wiped clean by me. In that moment, the world seemed to hit the mute button. I could no longer tell if what had vanished was a specific sunset, a fleeting smile, or a moment I had almost forgotten myself, silently recorded by a photo. They were supposed to rest safely in a digital corner, waiting for me to suddenly remember them one day with a soft “ah.” But now, they were just gone, silently and completely.
My first instinct was to post about it, to lay out this immense sense of loss. I knew my friends would come to comfort me, saying “it’s okay” or “I feel for you,” and some might even enthusiastically recommend data recovery software.
But in the end, I didn’t press send. My finger hovered over the screen for a long time, caught in a tug-of-war between “forget it” and “just post it.”
It’s not that I don’t need comfort. On the contrary, perhaps it’s because I need it so much that I’m afraid it will all be a futile exercise in venting. Those well-intentioned, formulaic words of comfort can’t truly touch the core of my loss.
When I gave up on venting and chose to digest this loss alone, I suddenly and completely understood her posts that were written and then deleted. It turns out that her hesitation wasn’t just simple rambling. It was a power struggle between the longing to be understood and the fear of being misread. When she let out a sigh, she was yearning for a soul who could understand the full weight behind it, not a crowd of people who merely came to observe it. And when she deleted it, she was using silence to protect her own inner rhythm, one that she wasn’t ready to have disturbed. Neither of us wanted these seemingly “trivial” matters to disrupt the pace we had worked so hard to establish.
This realization was confirmed late one night a few days later. I had long been using “revenge bedtime procrastination” to reclaim a little time for myself. Caught between my daytime low energy and nighttime anxiety, it had become almost my only way to catch my breath. That night, I saw her post again. It was a short line, but it felt like a distant echo: “Low-energy people do revenge bedtime procrastination every day, and before they can even get a good rest, it’s time for their 8 AM class again.”
Was it really such a coincidence? We are like two planets, silently orbiting in our own paths, sensing each other’s gravity through a similar frequency. We don’t show vulnerability easily, yet we protect our inner order in the same way. We both crave deep connection, yet we have a tacit understanding to use silence to achieve the deepest communication. This subtle, unspoken friendship is like a mirror. In her, I see the version of myself who makes peace with fatigue late at night, and the version who would rather bear loss alone than have her inner rhythm disturbed. We are both, in our own ways, anticipating and accepting the sudden losses that life throws at us. Perhaps this is the meaning of meeting “another self”—to confirm your own coordinates in the vast sea of people, and in doing so, gain a little courage to keep going.
Second Edit: #
She’s just an online acquaintance I added. I have no other intentions toward her; I’m just struck by the serendipity of our connection. Don’t get any strange ideas. There’s nothing wrong with admiring a gentle person, but you shouldn’t develop feelings for someone just because they are gentle.
This kind of pure resonance is precious and clean. I am exceptionally clear that a gentle resonance and a liking that crosses boundaries are two entirely different things.
Back then, we just really hit it off. I thought she was a nice person, and she could understand everything I talked about.
During one chat, I was excited to share my music playlist with her. Sharing a playlist is a pretty intimate thing, a bit like exchanging the keys to each other’s worlds.
At first, everything was great. I’d send a song, and she’d send one back. This back-and-forth felt like we were having a conversation through melodies, and the vibe was just right. Until one time, I excitedly shared a song, and the other side of the chat went silent for a long time. So long that I thought she hadn’t seen it. Then, a few words popped up: “? Didn’t see that in you.” I froze. Those words felt like a wall, blocking all of my enthusiasm.
Was it a mismatch between my music taste and my personality? I quickly asked, “What do you mean?” but she wouldn’t elaborate, just brushing it off with a random excuse.
After that day, it felt like there was some distance between us.
When we met in person a few days later, the atmosphere was a bit subtle. She suddenly smiled and leaned in close. The distance between us shrank instantly, and I could even smell the faint scent of her shampoo. She looked at me, her eyes bright, and asked in a half-joking tone, “Hey, let me ask you a question. How do you say wall, eye, and knee in English?”
Wall, Eye, Knee… I repeated them silently in my head and got it in a second.
In that instant, my heart skipped a beat, and then my pulse started racing. What… what did she mean by that? Was she joking? Or testing me? Our last chat had been so cold, and now she was doing this. I couldn’t figure her out at all. My mind raced, feeling like any answer would be the wrong one.
If I admitted I understood, what would happen next? What if she was just having fun? I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.
So, I chose the safest, and also the dumbest, option: to play dumb. I intentionally furrowed my brow and pretended to think really hard, muttering to myself.
She watched me from up close, a hint of expectation and craftiness in her eyes. When I didn’t respond after a while, she pressed again, “So? Figured it out yet?” I kept up the act and shook my head. She stared at me for a few seconds, and the smile on her face seemed to fade. Probably thinking it was no fun to tease me anymore, she just let out a noncommittal “hmm,” straightened up, and walked away.
Thinking back on it now, it was probably because a lot of pop songs at the time were love songs. I had sent her several in a row, and she might have mistaken it for a confession.
