My name is Xizhilang.
When Old P, an American cockroach who had snuck into our home with some local specialties from the south, leaned his fat body against the wall and bragged that he’d ridden a train and lived for a whole year, a crowd of sheltered little German cockroach girls squealed with admiration. I just stayed quiet, watching him bask in his own satisfaction.
I’ve been alive for more than twenty years. I’ve been on planes and ships, and even followed the lady of the house through the wild world of online gossip.
I used to brag about all that, too, earning the undying admiration of the little ones who had only just hatched and barely molted a few times.
But then I grew quiet.
Because I fell in love with someone.
When you love someone who doesn’t know how you feel, you spend an awful lot of time immersed in a world of silence.
When Old P found out, all he did was hiss and say, “You’re a real freak.”
Maybe. I’d expected that kind of reaction.
A world where everyone is accepted: what a distant dream.
