Chapter Three: The Youth Unaware of Sorrow

To be honest, although Zhou Ziyang and Li Dongfeng had known each other since middle school, Zhou never considered Li a friend. When they met again, Zhou almost didn’t recognize this construction worker with a lame leg.

Back in middle school, Li Dongfeng had a somewhat rustic air, yet he was stubborn in his own way. Zhou vaguely recalled that a few mischievous boys, skinny as monkeys, would pester Li for fights after class. But Li, relying on brute strength, would grit his teeth and easily throw each challenger aside one by one. Despite being surrounded and attacked, he never backed down, though he would secretly wipe away tears alone.

By high school, Li had shed his youthful naivety. Using his tall, sturdy frame, he had enjoyed a brief moment of glory at school. Yet no one expected that years later, he would show up in Zhou’s brand-new apartment wearing a worn red undershirt.

Li complained about the scams of working in the south. They promised a monthly salary of eight thousand yuan and private dormitories. But upon arriving, they didn’t even know where the factory was. “There was a guy who took us to a supposedly big factory, saying that the one they initially arranged was full, so they needed to assign us elsewhere with the same pay,” Li explained. “But we had to buy our own bedding there. We said we brought ours, but they said no, we had to buy from them. A set cost two hundred yuan, but the blankets were so thin they might as well have been sheets!”

His frustration was clear. They had advertised eight thousand yuan monthly on the internet, but after a grueling month of work, he only took home two thousand in total. Later, Li learned that the online recruiter and the local contact were not the same company. The online one was a scam; the manager on the phone probably didn’t even know where the factory was. They used scripted sales talk to lure people in, and once there, local labor agents would exploit the workers. The salary was never as high as eight thousand, but rarely as low as two thousand either. Usually, workers would get thirty to forty percent of their wages taken as commission. In short, they preyed on honest people through information asymmetry.

Li and a few classmates went south to work, but after about a month, unable to bear it, they fought someone at the factory and fled together. Back home, Li had no heart for school and found a nearby factory job. The pay was modest—three to four thousand yuan—but after his experience, he understood the harsh realities of society and gave up on the fantasy of earning eight thousand. A few thousand a month was enough to get by. He endured long shifts of eight to nine hours on the assembly line, then returned to the dorm to play games on his phone. He was satisfied.

Two years later, Li started dating someone he met through gaming. At first, it was all sweetness and affection; she called him “husband” constantly. Li, flushed with emotion, called her “wife” a few times, feeling a rush of hope and vitality. He even worked harder on the line, screwing in more bolts than usual.

But as time passed, after exchanging photos and video calls, the girl suddenly grew distant upon seeing him on video. She gently told him they weren’t compatible. Li’s heart sank. He thought he must have done something wrong to upset her.

Desperate, he begged and promised to buy her an iPhone 7 Plus. She hesitated, but they stayed together for another two months before breaking up again. Their relationship was a cycle of entanglement and separation.

On Mid-Autumn Festival, the factory was quiet. Li called his girlfriend on a video chat in the stairwell. She lashed out venomously, telling him to stop bothering her or she’d call the police. Li, standing on the third floor, threatened, “If you break up with me, I’ll jump!” She retorted harshly, “Jump then! If you don’t, you’re my son!” Then the screen went black. Without hesitation, Li jumped from the third floor, leaving him disabled in his lower leg. Since then, he could only do odd jobs with small contracting teams.

That afternoon, Zhou and Li talked at Zhou’s new, unfinished home. Li was no longer the brash, boundary-less giant of high school; his face was free of foolish smiles. Though the same age as Zhou, he looked like a man in his forties—scruffy beard, ill-fitting red T-shirt, and baggy shorts. His speech was more measured now.

He lamented, “I should have studied harder back then! I always thought you were smart; you’d definitely get into Tsinghua or Peking University! Good grades mean success. Look at you now—this house must be worth over a million, right?”

Zhou remained silent. People always hold awe for heights they haven’t reached. In high school, Li often dragged Zhou out to play, but Zhou always refused, citing study. Li would grin and say, “That’s right! You’re different from me; you study better and will go to university!”

In truth, Zhou’s grades were mediocre—neither excellent nor terrible. He lacked the innate brilliance of a top student but also didn’t have Li’s giving-up attitude. He carried his psychological burdens and struggled silently year after year. Eventually, he got into an ordinary second-tier university and found a regular job after graduation.

He once tried to convince himself that grades weren’t the only path to success, that even a second-tier graduate could start a business and make a fortune. But the reality was harsh: after school, every step was difficult. His monthly salary barely reached three thousand yuan. He rented a tiny ten-square-meter north-facing room for two hundred yuan, and to save money, he rode a shared bike for over ten minutes before catching the subway.

In his youth, both his mother and he were ambitious. She taught him, “Poverty doesn’t mean losing ambition. You don’t have to be arrogant, but never lose your backbone.” But at twenty-five, when Zhou spoke to his mother on the phone, all he heard were sighs. She said, “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t divorced him back then, you wouldn’t have had such a hard time.”

Zhou didn’t feel tired, but poverty was real. Long-term reliance on takeout, irregular meals, and late nights led him to develop chronic gallbladder inflammation—an enduring illness.

His mother realized she couldn’t let her son suffer like this and finally gave in, setting aside her pride. She contacted her ex-husband, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years. Thus, at twenty-seven, Zhou returned to their small county town. He found a respectable job, had his own car, and a roughly 180-square-meter river-view apartment with four bedrooms and two living rooms.

To Li Dongfeng and most classmates, Zhou was a success. In their small town, Zhou, backed by his father’s influence, dressed sharply and frequented upscale venues. Hotel managers greeted him warmly. Whenever a former classmate had trouble, a single call to Zhou could solve it.

But this was not what Zhou desired. No one knew his true thoughts, but undeniably, he was a complete failure. He was even outmatched by Li Dongfeng, who worked as a laborer.

“Old Zhou! Old Zhou! What are you thinking?” Li’s voice jolted him back to reality. When Zhou finally cleared his mind, the face before him was still that somewhat youthful one of Li Dongfeng.

“Old Zhou, are you coming tonight or not? Just give me a straight answer!” Li sounded anxious. Perhaps he already sensed Zhou didn’t consider him a friend and didn’t want to attend his farewell dinner. Yet he couldn’t admit it, because since middle school, Zhou was the first person who treated him like a human being. Li truly regarded Zhou as a friend and was afraid of rejection.

Looking into Li’s earnest eyes, Zhou hesitated no longer and nodded solemnly, “I’ll go.”

“What? You’re not going?” The shock among their classmates was palpable. Zhou’s prompt agreement stunned everyone waiting to see him refuse. The enrichment class students, the top undergraduates, generally disliked the loud underperformer who had entered their class. Someone like Li Dongfeng, the class’s tail-ender, quitting school to work? Normally, Zhou would have rejected Li.

But today, for some reason, he agreed so readily.

“Don’t you fear being isolated by the enrichment class?” Even Xia Wei, sitting in the front row, was taken aback by Zhou’s instant reply and glanced back at him with surprise.