I had a nightmare where in the jail in Lower Manhattan and everyone came up to beat me and kicked me, even Mida. And the reason for them is only because I don't talk to them. They beat me with a bruised nose and swollen face, and broke my front teeth.

I woke up from my bed and found that it was just a nightmare, and I couldn't sleep when I tried to go back. I lay down from six o'clock until eight o'clock, and I didn't get up until Alice called me and asked me to go to morning tea.

Just like yesterday, she picked me up in the driver's car, and we ate and drank, but didn't talk about what had happened in the past. Every time I talked about it, my heart hurt, so I decided early on not to let the pain I had experienced sweep over and torment me again.

I miss Brooks so much, he broke his elbow during his years in prison, and I wonder if playing the violin for too long will be affected. Brooks loved his cello so much that he used to practice for two hours a day, but then changed to between half an hour and an hour a day after a hand injury.

After morning tea, I sat and waited for Alice, who was still eating slowly. I lowered my head to play with my phone, and Mu Mu sent a text message from what's App: The world never belongs to me, nor does it belong to you. We've never been loved by others, but we've been wandering from place to place.

I immediately called after reading this message, but the phone was not answered and the message was not answered. I was completely panicked, I didn't know what she was going to do, I always felt that something bad was going to happen.

Alice leaned over to look at my phone, and I immediately turned it off and held it in the palm of my hand.

"Hua, what's wrong with you? The face is ugly. ”

I didn't answer, rushed out of the restaurant, stood on the side of the street and kept calling, and I also played the video, but no one answered.

It was nine o'clock on the morning of a Saturday, and there were so many people on the street, and I was standing in the middle of it, and the noise in front and back drowned out the voice alerts in my ears.

That night, Mu Mu still didn't reply to the news, and I kept scrolling through the news on the international news platform (CNN), and I really saw what I didn't want to see: a Chinese in Honduras committed suicide by throwing himself into the river.

Click on the headline to look down, there is very little information in the press release, only saying that it is a Chinese woman, suspected that she was thrown into the river because of a quarrel with her family.

I stood on the side of the road and wanted to vomit but couldn't vomit, so I immediately took out the medicine from my bag and swallowed two pills. I always couldn't take my medication on time, and I couldn't change it.

"It can't be her."

I prayed silently.

Last night, she also said that she was going to work in the store, she was obviously full of hope, how could it be.

Until the early hours of the morning, I couldn't sleep and stood on the edge of Victoria Harbour to blow the wind, and CNN finally updated the report and confirmed the identity of the deceased, and I finally couldn't fool myself anymore.

I looked up at the sky, the night sky was lonely, even the stars didn't want to come out, a cloud blocked the moon, and the moon could only emit a hazy lemon-colored light behind the clouds, so weak, like our fate.

I went back to New York early, and because I couldn't explain why, I had an unpleasant encounter with Alice. She didn't want me to leave early, but Hong Kong was not my home, and I felt that all the cells in my body were fighting against this place, and I had to go back to Flushing. There's a fast food meal for three dollars, there's my family, there's a swing under the tree, and there's a fuchsia sunset that's always beautiful in New York.

Although the city's subway radio never knows the destination point, I often get the wrong seat; Although the homeless may have a better life than me. Although you always have to feel a kind of confused and directionless flowing air in the indifference and cold of the night, you can determine that your fate is entangled there.

I love New York because my destiny is linked here, and it is so connected to me that I can't get rid of it until the future is yet to surface.

While waiting for my flight at the airport, I found the foreword to a book in the Eslite bookstore at the airport, in which the author said that he had not yet decided where he should grow up, so he kept changing his place of life, from Beijing to New York, and was still living in Japan when he wrote the preface to the book.

Sitting on the plane, I sat by the window in a three-seat seat, and the two passengers in the seats next to me carried large bags and small bags, stuffed into their laps. This made it a hassle for me to go out to the bathroom, so I held it all the way and my bladder swelled. And they envy me that I can see the clouds outside.

They were good friends with young people, and when they asked me if I was traveling to New York, I didn't think about it and said I was going home. They showed envious eyes, saying that the two wanted to come to New York a few years ago, but they had not saved enough money, so they bought less cosmetics and less clothes every month, and finally scraped together enough money for the trip.

These two girls are very beautiful with makeup and eye shadow, unlike my plain face, as if someone owes me money.

The moment I answered "go home", I thought of the book in the bookstore, maybe I grew up in New York.

I somewhat regretted not buying that book and forgetting the title. I only remember that the author's surname is Li, and I have forgotten the last two words cleanly, maybe I have never memorized it carefully. I wasn't fully interested in anything, not just reading, but also going to work, socializing, including traveling.

As I waited to get off the plane, I calmly watched the plane descend and the clouds float through the wings. The two younger sisters beside him couldn't wait to get out. They were looking forward to their planned trips, and I listened to their uncontrollable chatter and stole a few glances at them, trying to find their fate in their faces and eyes. Isn't that all fortune telling?

Have they been or will be like me, swayed by desire, swayed by love, stuck in a quagmire and swamp unable to extricate themselves? Have all those enthusiastic faces also wailed?

As soon as I got out of the airport, I threw away the doubt, forgot about my trip to Hong Kong, and headed back to Queens with my suitcase. Alice called me and asked only one sentence: "Are we still friends?" ”

I didn't reply, and after a little busyness, I remembered Mu Mu again, regretting that I couldn't see her for the last time.

I bought a bag of whole wheat bread, a carton of milk, and locked myself in Brooks' room for days without coming out.

It wasn't until later that Brooks was afraid that something would happen to me, so he paid $80 for a small worker to pry open the door to his room.

He hugged me and wiped away my tears.

I was sad and silent.

Brooks looked at me pleadingly and said, "Hua, see a psychiatrist, so you'll feel better." ”

This time I agreed.

But instead of a hospital, I went to a nursing home, a place in New Jersey that I forgot what street it was, only to know that there were low houses next to it, and there were many plants on the lawn outside.

Brooks brought me here to treat an old friend of his, named Smith like the unskilled lawyer.

I didn't know anyone well in the sanatorium, and my favorite thing to do was sit in my room and read a book that Brooks had brought in by the scenes, and bought the Cernuda Poems from a second-hand book stall.

I'm living comfortably here, no one bothering me, and I don't even have to think about going to work or earnings. The only time I need to talk is when I'm sitting in his office with Smith, and usually, he'll start by saying good morning, sometimes good afternoon. Then he would ask me how I felt today, and I would always say, "That's it."

This is not a perfunctory answer, but it is.

I don't trust Smith enough and I don't trust the profession of a psychiatrist enough. I always wonder if I would cry tears and snot and reveal my thoughts and wounds to him, and he would turn around and tell these things as jokes to his friends and family.

So I was reluctant to break through my psychological defenses and tell him what I was secret.

Every time we met in his office, the atmosphere of the conversation was always weird, and over time I got used to it. He was also used to my silence, and at the end of a meeting, he gave me a notebook with a green cover, suggesting that I could keep a diary every day, and of course he wouldn't peep into my privacy.