That Thing About Living Together in Beijing

After graduating from graduate school, I struggled in Beijing with my resume and barely managed to gain a foothold, but I unexpectedly stumbled into Du Yi's world. He didn't go to a prestigious school. After graduating from a junior college, he plunged into the sales circle. His shirt always had wrinkles from the rush, but he always warmed the hot soup on the stove when I came home late from working overtime. We rented a shabby little apartment outside the Fifth Ring Road. The walls were peeling off and there was draft in the winter, but it became each other's safe haven. I would laugh at him for not even having the strength to twist the bottle cap after nodding and bowing to the client; he would also complain about me writing plans until the early hours of the morning, piling up the living room like a waste paper station. But just like these two "incompatible" people, they bargained together at the vegetable market, ate cold bread together at night during a power outage, and calculated next month's rent together on their pay slips. He will remember that I don't eat coriander, and I will secretly polish his leather shoes. Some people say that I am not talented, and some people advise them not to delay me, but only we know that in this cold city of Beijing, having someone to eat with and wait for the lights to turn on is the most practical happiness. Those heartbeats hidden in daily necessities, and the tenderness of leaving the door open for each other after a fight, are the most precious little things in the days when we live together.