52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmXJ6qXRJ5s
Story for No One to Read.
52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs6ZuQowXG4
Let me tell you a story.
I had a friend who started out writing short stories. He was very conceited and thought he had the most imaginative mind in the world. He wrote many, many short stories, and every time he showed me his stories, he would pretend to be modest and induce us to praise him. I saw through his little tricks and would always say, ‘Wow, what you've written is really great! You should publish it online!’
But as far as I know, this guy has never shown his work to anyone outside his circle of friends.
He seems to be enjoying himself. After all, he is an outgoing and cheerful person, and sometimes his cheerfulness can make others feel uncomfortable, but he himself seems oblivious to it.
Gradually, we graduated from school, lost touch with each other, and we grew tired of the short stories he wrote, which we used to read for leisure.
Until that day. It was the first time we had been in touch since graduating two years earlier. He suddenly sent me an email saying that he had written a story that he was particularly proud of and wanted to share with me. I didn't refuse. He then sent me a document, saying it was his novel.
I clicked the mouse and opened the document. At first, I thought it was a computer loading error because there was nothing in the document. Did he send me an empty document? I paused for a moment and laughed.
I thought he had sent it by mistake, so I sent him a message to ask him about it. Unexpectedly, he deleted me, so I had no choice but to continue sending him emails. He didn't explain anything, but gave me an address, the address of a restaurant, and asked me if I was free that night. This guy hasn't changed a bit.
That evening, I went to the small restaurant as agreed. He was already waiting there. I didn't beat around the bush, just said hello and ordered some food.
He smiled and said, ‘Did you receive my story?’
I looked at him in confusion: ‘Bro, you know you sent me an empty file.’
He smiled again: ‘You know, this is my proudest work.’
I was even more confused. ‘But you seem to have forgotten to click the save button.’
His smile turned eerie. ‘It took me five whole years to create this masterpiece.’
I started to wonder if he was crazy. (But what happened later did indeed confirm this, so we won't get into that now.)
At that moment, the waiter brought our food. It turned out he had already ordered it before I arrived.
He grabbed the burger, took a bite, and started eating on his own. I was starving too, so I started eating as well. But that guy had been acting strange the whole time.
After a while, he put down the burger and asked me a question.
“Would you write a story that no one would read?”
I was taken aback.
He didn’t wait for me to speak and continued, “Actually, my writing back then was pretty average, right? You guys didn’t really like it, but you still encouraged me, didn’t you?”
This made me a bit awkward. But since we’d already graduated, I didn’t want to hide it from him anymore, so I nodded.
“But thank you for reading my story.”
I smiled, “You’re welcome. Others must have encouraged you too, right?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, “No. Actually, you were the only one who gave me feedback back then. Others didn’t even bother to read it properly. My hard work was dismissed with a laugh. Thank you. You gave me the courage to write the final chapter of my story, the one I sent you in the email."
His words made me feel awkward, but I still asked him out of curiosity, ‘But that document was really empty, wasn't it?’
The smile disappeared from his face. ‘Yes. It has no content whatsoever. But that's the beauty of it. There is nothing. It will confuses everyone, making them wonder what I mean. But when they start thinking about what I really want to express, I've already won. Because I don't want to express anything at all. It's more interesting than any story I've written before. Because it controls you, making you think. ’
I was speechless.
After saying that, he put down his hamburger. ‘I have something to do, so I'll be leaving. My mother called me to come home for dinner.’ He waved his hand and left the restaurant. He hadn't paid yet.
But I didn't dwell on it. That was the last time I met him.
Two years later, I found out that the poor guy had blown his own head off with a shotgun that very night. Someone told me he had depression and was living a aimless life, but back then, since he saw that I had a decent relationship with him, he didn’t dare tell me. I felt a mix of emotions. Though I didn’t consider him a close friend, he said I was the person he trusted most. So all his supposed cheerfulness and openness were just a performance masking immense pain? Thinking about it is exhausting.
Today, while cleaning out my emails, I came across the blank document he had sent me. This was the last message he left for the world—nothing.
I stared at the blank page in a daze. I was deeply shaken. It was a silent swan song. In a state of moderate depression, what else could he do? He had lost interest in everything, lost hope. His last act was to come find me, and I felt an inexplicable sadness. I had thought it would be an ordinary meeting, but it turned out to be a farewell. Though I hadn’t given him much besides his last meal, all that remained were those insincere words of encouragement from years ago. But I also hope that, back then, hearing my so-called praise, he could have been a little happier.
May his spirit be with God, amen.
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