Day Two of the Holiday, While the Whole Boarding Row Went Home

Friday, the second day of a four-day holiday. Early sun, not a sound of people.

I am twenty-six and work in technical support at an appliance store. The boarding row has eight rooms, and this morning seven have been locked since yesterday. The coach tickets home sold out last week, and I could not get one in time. I decided to stay, and today I am trying to write it down.

6:40. I wake from habit, not because anyone called. Usually at this hour there is the flap of sandals in the corridor, water running in the shared bathroom, the landlady coughing. Today there is only a bird on a power line. I lie there listening to it. Normally I grab my phone the moment I open my eyes, so today I tried leaving it under the pillow, the way I had once read about fifteen minutes in the morning without a phone. I lasted five minutes, then pulled it out to check the time, and saw a notification with a friend's photo from back home. I turned it face down again.

8:15. The banh mi cart at the head of the alley is closed for the holiday, so I make instant noodles. Water boils in the electric kettle, the smell of the seasoning packet rises. I eat on the step outside my door, right where on any other day the neighbors' sandals sit.

Here I slip. I eat while scrolling Facebook, and see a photo of my old roommate sitting at his family's meal tray. Three, four shots. Then photos of people from the boarding row at the bus station. I finish the bowl without remembering the taste. When I look up, the kettle has switched itself off and the broth has gone cold.

I put the phone down on the step. I look at the half bowl of broth. I do not eat more. I only look for a while. Another time, maybe I will try eating a meal without my phone, but today I do not force it.

11:00. Mom calls on video. The screen shakes, her face fills it, and behind her is our brick yard and the yellow dog lying under the guava tree.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes, Mom, I had noodles."

"Noodles again. Goodness. Why not go out to a restaurant?"

"They're all closed, Mom. And I'm fine, don't worry."

She turns the camera to show me the lunch tray being set, braised fish, sour soup. I look at the tray longer than I need to. Both feelings arrive together: missing it, and relief that I do not have to sit squeezed among relatives asking how much I earn. I do not know which is truer. Probably both.

After hanging up I sit still for a breath. My hand is still warm from the phone.

14:30. Lying on the tile floor to stay cool, I fall into a short sleep. When I wake the whole row is so quiet that I can hear a fan at the far end of the corridor, left on by someone. The fan turns steadily, with nobody there to need it.

One sentence rises in me: the whole row left, and I am the only one left behind.

I let that sentence sit a while, then ask it back: left behind, or did I choose to stay because I could not get a ticket? Those are different. Not to argue and win, only to make room for a second sentence next to the first. I also think about permitting yourself to rest without guilt, since this holiday was meant for resting in the first place.

17:20. I walk out to the end of the road. The city is strangely empty, like a film paused. Shops have pulled down their shutters, the traffic lights keep turning red and green for no one. One sidewalk cafe is open, plastic tables, an old woman selling beside it. I order an iced milk coffee and sit on a low stool by the curb.

For ten minutes I think of nothing, only watch the ice melt in the glass. Then I remember the rent for the start of the month, and the ten minutes are gone.

I return to the coffee. You do not always come back on the first try. This time I did, on the second.

21:00. Back at the boarding row. At the far end of the corridor one window has a light on. Mr. Tư the bricklayer in the last room did not go home either, I know because his wheelbarrow stands outside the door. We look at each other across the yard, he nods, I nod. Nobody says anything. I go into my room, not feeling that anything has happened, but something has eased, a little less cramped.

22:30. Before turning off the light: I was not good today. I slipped several times, and at one point nearly called my friend just to hear someone's voice. But I heard a bird, a fan, and a nod. That much, for one day.

Tomorrow is day three.

When to seek professional support

This article is a diary page about one day staying in an emptied city. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising it will ease the feeling of being alone.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• A feeling of emptiness or being alone lasts for weeks and does not ease from one day to the next
• You do not want to see anyone, not even people you used to find easy company
• Your eating or sleeping is clearly thrown off, for a long stretch, and it affects your work
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Talking to a professional is not a sign you are weaker than anyone else. It is like seeing a doctor when a pain keeps going and does not ease: a reasonable thing to do.