Love's Ambition

At midnight, we sat in a small private room on the 36th floor. I smoked while the girl drank beer. Wind rushed in through the open window. Rain was coming soon, earlier than forecasted. The middle-aged men next door who had been talking loudly had left, and now the room was quiet.

The grilled chicken skewers on the table had gone cold, and the tempura was slowly shrinking. The girl sat across from me, intently studying the English words on the beer can. Mustard-colored light fell on her profile, her smudged mascara making the area under her eyes look messy, and the ponytail at the back of her head had loosened. There was a disheveled beauty about her, a hint of sexiness. But sexiness didn’t matter at all right now. The place and time were her choices. Last week, she’d emailed me, asking if I’d take this job. I said, “Sure, but not the weekend—I’m moving.” By Wednesday, she emailed again, apologizing but still hoping to schedule it for Sunday. Weekdays were too hectic with trivial matters, leaving her no energy to deal with this. “Please,” she wrote at the end, “I’m almost thirty.” I agreed and postponed my move by a day.

We met downstairs at the Bluebird Tower. The subway rumbled beneath us, making the floor tremble slightly. The wind in the passage between buildings was fierce, swallowing our greetings. She said, “I’m Momo,” or maybe “I’m Mengmeng”—I couldn’t hear clearly and didn’t ask again. It didn’t matter. The girl, Momo or Mengmeng, wore a dark blue hoodie pulled up, revealing only half of her pale face. Her eyes were large, her lips pressed into a tight, downward line. I followed her as she led me around to the other side of the building."On the thirty-sixth floor," she pointed out the window of the Japanese restaurant to me. I tilted my head back to look up—the dense, honeycomb-like windows felt overwhelmingly oppressive. When a body flies out from one of those windows, I imagined the sharp parabola, there must be an intense sense of liberation. She watched me, seemingly waiting for my approval of her chosen spot. I shrugged and told her it was entirely up to her.

The Japanese restaurant was hidden inside this office building, with no signage outside, making it perfect for clandestine meetings. The private booth was dimly lit, and the daisies in the bamboo vase had already begun to wilt, emitting a faint, feeble fragrance. On the tatami mat by my feet was a faint dark stain—probably soy sauce—but it made me think of a woman’s blood.

As the server set out the dishes and chopsticks, the girl whispered to her, "There’s one more." Seeing my puzzled look, she explained, "My boyfriend." She lowered her eyelids. "Sorry for not telling you earlier. We wanted to... together. Is that okay?"

"It should be fine," I said. "Though I’m not entirely sure."

The girl said, "Paying double is no problem. I’m not trying to take advantage of you."

"No need," I replied. "I charge by time. The number of people doesn’t matter."

She smiled. "So what’s the upper limit on time?"

"One night," I answered.

"He should be on his way already," said the girl—Mo Mo or Meng Meng. "Let’s eat while we wait."

Six months ago, I posted a message on a forum that sold all kinds of strange services, offering a paid service for three thousand yuan: accompanying those who wanted to commit suicide through their final moments before the act.

"Suicide requires immense courage. Weakness and hesitation at the last moment are extremely common. I can help you overcome these difficulties, allowing you to proceed calmly and resolutely," the message read. I even gave the role a name—"Death Companion."

At first, many people emailed to inquire. Most questions revolved around how I could prove I had the ability I claimed. I had indeed served as a "Death Companion" for a few people before, but the dead couldn’t testify. This was a job that would never receive feedback, and I explained as much in my replies. Still, many didn’t believe me, or perhaps they weren’t in such a hurry to die—either way, they never wrote back. A few others tried to haggle over the price. I couldn’t understand why people on the verge of death would still go to such lengths to save a few hundred yuan.Only one boy eventually agreed to meet. According to his letter, he was eighteen, had leukemia, and only a few months left to live. We arranged to meet by the lake in Zhongshan Park. He said when he was five, he’d been boating with his parents and dropped a shoe into the water. Over the years, he kept dreaming of diving to the lakebed to retrieve it. I sat on a bench for two hours, but the boy never showed. Maybe he came and left. Surely it couldn’t have been that fat guy who sat beside me for ages? He ate two burgers, two boxes of fries, four egg tarts, a bag of chicken wings, and downed a half-liter Coke. The key was how focused he was—not once did he glance my way. Meanwhile, I kept turning to look at him. As the sun began to set, I left the bench, rented a boat, and rowed to the middle of the lake. For some reason, I believed the boy’s story about the lost shoe was true.

Over time, fewer and fewer people emailed to inquire. Eventually, I forgot about it altogether—until the girl wrote. It didn’t seem like a prank, and even if it was, I didn’t mind making a pointless trip. After that last visit to the lake, I suddenly craved a burger after boating—I hadn’t had one in ten years—so I went to a nearby Burger King. The beef patty was delicious, and I went home satisfied.

The girl sat across from me. Between us, an alcohol burner blazed, heating the paper hot pot to a boil. Before ordering, she earnestly asked about my preferences, but when it came time to choose, she didn’t seem to follow them. She didn’t seem to like the dishes much herself either (she only ate half a tempura shrimp, pushing the other half to the edge of her plate with mild distaste). The one who loved tempura and offal was probably her boyfriend, still on his way. She’d ordered based on his tastes—an irresistible subconscious reflex. Did that mean he was the one who wanted to die more?

This troubled me. Every job has its professional ethics. Mine at the museum was to protect artifacts from accidental damage. For a "death companion," ethics meant acting on the client’s own desperate wish—at least, that’s what I believed.

"Can I smoke?" I asked. The air in the private room was stifling, and a fierce craving made it hard to resist.

"Didn’t they ban indoor smoking everywhere?"

"When the smoking ban came, I thought I’d smoke less. Instead, I smoke more now."

"Yeah," the girl nodded. "Just like the harder you try to live well, the more you want to die." She turned and opened the window behind her. Wind rushed in, tangling her long hair. Something seemed to catch her attention as she leaned on the windowsill, looking down.

"As a kid, I thought I had magic—every time I waved my hand, the lights in the room turned on. Turns out my mom was secretly flipping the switch. Later, at a lantern festival, there was a monkey with terrifyingly bright eyes. I kept waving, but they stayed lit. I cried, realizing for the first time that I was just ordinary." Her back was to me, hiding her expression.

I said, "I think all magic is evil.""Ordinary is the most wicked of all," she said.

The room was quiet, the flame on the alcohol burner leaping wildly. For a moment, I almost thought she would suddenly stand up and throw herself over. She might vanish from my sight at any second—this dark blue dress, this pale little face, these dazed eyes. By the time I absentmindedly lit another cigarette, she turned toward me.

"Actually, I really want to know what it feels like to fly. But my boyfriend doesn’t like the idea—he’s afraid of heights," she said. Only then did I remember the existence of that boyfriend. For a while just now, I’d completely forgotten about him.

"It’s fine," she nodded, as if comforting herself. "I brought plenty of pills."

"Always had a thing for double suicide?" I asked.

"How do I put it? The thought of death has been with me since I was very young. But I’ve always felt I couldn’t do it alone."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. I can do a lot of things alone—eat alone, live alone, travel alone… But I just can’t die alone. It always felt like something two people should do together. You come into this world alone to find someone else, so you can leave together. Only then does it feel complete."

"And now you’ve found that person?" I said.

No answer. She picked up the beer beside her and took a large gulp.

"Tell me about you," she said after a while.

"Hm?"

"How did you end up doing this?"

"I wanted to do it right after college, but life was always too busy. It wasn’t until this year, when I switched to a less demanding job, that I finally could."

She wasn’t interested in what I did now, only asking, "Why did you want to do it?"

"Because in this area… I seem to have a bit of a talent. Maybe I can help those who are trapped, give them release."

"Talent?" She frowned.

"Yeah, discovered it in eighth grade." I lit another cigarette and continued.One afternoon during that summer vacation, I was playing basketball alone on the court. A boy had been watching from the sidelines—tall and thin, looking a bit older than me, maybe a sophomore or junior in high school. He stood there silently for a long time, so I asked if he wanted to join. He played well, aggressive in defense, and we both worked up a sweat. When it got dark, I was about to head home when he suddenly asked if I wanted to come over to his place. He said we could play video games, that his parents weren’t home. I didn’t want to go, but he kept pleading, over and over: "Just for a little while, just a little while, okay?" Eventually, I agreed. I stopped by a phone booth to call home, then followed him.

His place was on the top floor of an apartment building—two small, shabby rooms, and there wasn’t any gaming console. "You’ll have to forgive me," he said. "I was afraid you wouldn’t come with me. Want some beer?" He pulled two bottles of Tsingtao from the humming fridge, along with a plate of fried peanuts. We sat side by side on the narrow fabric sofa, his shoulder almost touching mine. I could feel the springs beneath me and smell the sour tang of his sweat. Every now and then, he turned his head to stare at me. He might’ve been gay. The thought had crossed my mind, though my understanding of that world was extremely limited. I kept wondering what I’d do if he suddenly leaned in. But he didn’t do anything. We just sat there, drinking beer in silence.

After a while, he got up, turned off the TV, and went into the bathroom. I stayed seated, finishing my beer alone. My face grew hot, and I started feeling drowsy. But he still hadn’t come out. I knocked on the bathroom door and said I was leaving. I stepped outside, hesitated, then went back to knock again. There seemed to be ragged breathing inside. I took a few steps back and slammed my shoulder into the door. It gave way.

He was lying on the floor, his head tilted against the tiled wall, blood gushing from a slit artery. I called an ambulance from his landline, then wrapped his wrist with a sofa throw. He was already struggling to breathe, but he managed a faint smile. "Why?" I asked.

"I’ve always wanted to die," he said. "I just never had the courage—until I saw you. From the first glance, I knew you were different. There’s something about you… something that gives people the courage to make up their minds. To die. Having you here with me at the end, I’m not scared at all."

Two minutes later, he stopped breathing.In high school, I lived in the dormitory. Since my relationship with my parents had always been distant, I sometimes didn’t even go home on weekends. One weekend, I went to a nearby arcade to play video games (after that boy died, I became addicted to them). There was a girl playing the claw machine next to me. I had noticed her earlier because she was wearing our school uniform. Normally, no one wore their uniform to the arcade—getting caught would mean disciplinary action. That day, she was lucky and managed to grab a Winnie the Pooh and two rabbits.

After a while, I turned around and found her standing right behind me, her eyes hidden behind thick bangs, making it hard to tell where she was looking. I asked if she wanted to use my machine, but she shook her head. So I inserted two more coins, gripped the steering wheel, and continued racing. That day, I was on fire—several times I nearly crashed into the cars ahead but miraculously dodged them. She stood there the whole time, watching until I used up my last coin. Then she said, "You're really good. Want to grab something to eat?"

I agreed because I was genuinely hungry. As we left, she left the Winnie the Pooh and the rabbits on the seat beside her. I reminded her, but she waved her hand and said, "Those weren’t what I wanted. I only wanted the giraffe, but I just couldn’t get it."We went to McDonald's and had burgers. After eating, she went back to the counter and asked for lots of ketchup packets, tearing a small opening to sip slowly. Later, she started talking about her childhood. To be precise, things from when she was one year old. Back then, her mother often took her to a park, letting her crawl on the grass while she made phone calls to flirt with a man—sometimes bursting into laughter, other times suddenly crying. I said, "No one remembers things from when they were one." But she insisted she did, describing once when her mother told the man "I love you" over the phone, what dress she was wearing, and the color of her hair clip. She remembered feeling so sad, already prepared for her mother to abandon her and leave home. But her mother never left—until last year, when she died of stomach cancer, with her and her father by her side. The girl fell silent, slowly sipping ketchup. I asked what she was thinking. She looked up at me, then lowered her head again. After a while, she said, "Well, let's go." On the way back, she said, "You don’t have to walk me." I replied, "We go to the same school." She seemed surprised: "How come I’ve never seen you before? What class are you in?" I told her my grade and class, adding, "There are thousands of students—even if we’ve crossed paths, you wouldn’t remember." She shook her head: "I’m sure I’ve never seen you." When we reached the school, I said goodbye, but she suddenly pulled me under a pine tree nearby and shoved a heavy cloth bag into my hands. I loosened the drawstring and saw it was full of green arcade tokens. I told her to keep them, to try for the giraffe tomorrow. She said, "I don’t want the giraffe anymore," pushed the bag into my arms, and ran off. That night, she hanged herself with a white scarf from her dorm room door. Since it was the weekend, everyone else had gone home, and it wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that her roommate returned, found the door wouldn’t budge, and called security. Two days later, her classmates held a memorial for her on the playground, lighting many candles. I walked through the crowd of weeping girls to the center and looked at her portrait.

"Can we get two more beers?" I stubbed out my cigarette and asked.

The girl—Momo or Mengmeng—nodded, opened the booth door, and called for the server.

"Did you ever use those tokens she gave you?" she turned to ask.

"Yeah."

"Did you try for the giraffe?"

I shook my head.

"Couldn’t get it? You’d think the long neck would make it easier to grab."

"There was no giraffe. The prize pool never had a giraffe in it."

The girl nodded, motioning for the server to open the beers.

"So that confirmed your talent?" she asked.

"I was pretty troubled back then. I’d turn and walk away if a stranger tried to talk to me."

"Why did you change your mind later?"

"Where’s your boyfriend now?"

"Never mind him. Keep going."During my college years, I went to a city in the south. One autumn, a female classmate invited me on an outing. There were four others with us—her boyfriend, another couple, and a younger female student. I wasn't close with that classmate at all and had no idea why she asked me. But I went anyway.

We took a two-hour bus ride to a reservoir in the suburbs. There, we set up a grill. Everyone drank beer, played music on a small cassette player, and started dancing. The girl who was alone suddenly stopped and asked if I’d take a walk with her nearby. I said, "Let’s not, it’s getting dark." So she asked me to just sit with her for a while. We sat by the campfire. The evening had turned chilly, the flames flickering wildly, making our faces hot while cold wind still blew against our backs. She reached out her hand for me to hold. It wasn’t cold, but not warm either—it felt like touching fabric.

She asked me, What do you think this place will be like in twenty years?

I said, Probably still a reservoir.

She said, The water will dry up. Don’t you know? The world’s about to end.

I said, Then isn’t it good to witness its end?

She laughed and said, Silly, it’ll be painful.

She stared into my eyes, then leaned in and kissed me on the lips. The others stopped dancing and started teasing us. The classmate who invited me said, She’s been crazy about you—begged me to get you out here.

We started grilling food, but the girl didn’t eat anything. She just wrapped her arms around me, clinging to my side. The others kept joking about us while I silently drank beer from a can. After a while, she stood up and said she was going to the restroom. Another girl said, Me too, let’s go. I told her, Stay with her. She teased me before linking arms with her friend and leaving.

I took a few more sips of beer, then suddenly felt uneasy and ran after them toward the restroom. The other girl was already searching for her, saying she’d disappeared after coming out of the toilet.

The girl—Momo or Mengmeng—sat there, arms wrapped around her knees. She had been so quiet that I’d almost forgotten she was there. I’d never told anyone about this. Not because it was a secret, but because no one had ever asked. Untold for so long, the story had grown stiff, like day-old bread.

Did she jump into the river? Momo or Mengmeng asked softly.

No. She took the bus home and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills in her bedroom.

Everyone has their preferred way to die.

What’s yours? I asked.

No answer.

Did you like her back then? she asked.

Not really.

Hmm. At least you were moved. Then you found out she just wanted to use you to help her die—that must’ve felt awful.

I just don’t get why she pretended to like me so much.

She probably wanted you to like her.

Does that matter to someone about to die?

Even when leaving, people want to take a little love with them.

I guess I still don’t understand. "People always assume that those who want to commit suicide are utterly despondent, feeling like nothing matters anymore. But that's not actually the case. Some who wish to die end up feeling deeply satisfied, as if a voice whispers in their ear, 'Don't worry, it's alright, it's nothing—we all understand.'"

"You seem quite knowledgeable about this."

"I prefer to understand something thoroughly before acting."

"And now you've figured it all out?"

"Just one thing left."

"What's that?"

"Where do people go after they die."

"Where would you like to go?"

"Even hell would be fine, as long as there's someone to talk to."

"What would you talk about?"

"I don't know. Maybe music we liked when we were alive?"

"What kind of music do you like?"

"Damien Rice."

"After the female vocalist Lisa left, he became quite mediocre."

"Yeah, he could never write songs like '9 Crimes' again."

"Lisa's solo albums weren't great either."

"They must have loved each other deeply back then."

"Right? I wouldn't know."

"But why would two people who loved each other so much separate? If I found that person, I'd never let go of their hand, even in floods or earthquakes."

The door of the private room opened, and a waiter peeked in:

"Sorry, but we're closing..."

"Do you want to call your boyfriend?" I asked.

"He won't come," she said. "This is the fourth one. The person who promised to die with me never showed up. It's normal, right?" She smiled faintly. "Honestly, I asked you here because I didn't have the courage to wait alone."

We left the restaurant. The subway had stopped running, but the dark shadows of trees swaying under the streetlights made the ground beneath our feet seem to tremble. The girl—Momo or Mengmeng—pulled up her hoodie and tucked her hands into her sleeves. She stared at me as if searching for something in me. When she finally looked away, I wasn't sure if she had found it. I waited for her to say goodbye so I could turn and leave. But she didn't, so when she started walking, I followed. The wind was strong, and as I held a cigarette between my lips, I kept flicking the lighter—the flame would flare up and then die. She leaned in, cupping her hands to shield the flame. I took a couple of deep drags before the cigarette finally lit. She was watching me again, quietly.

I followed her to the seaside. In this northern city, the sea died as soon as autumn arrived. The beach, once crowded with umbrellas in summer, was now just a stretch of desolate sand. The road lined with pine trees was pitch black, the only light coming from a towering real estate advertisement atop a high-rise with an ocean view, displaying a phone number made up of large 6s and 8s.

We stood on the sand. The girl—Momo or Mengmeng—gazed at the sea.

"Did you see the green tide in summer?" she asked.

"No. I barely went out in summer."

"It was huge, so green—the sea looked like a grassland. Some kids were playing ball there. I bought a tent, thinking I could live on it. But bulldozers came a few days later. Why couldn’t they just leave it there?"

"I heard cookies made from green tide are delicious," I said.

"I wanted to drift away with it."

"Is that how you'd like to die?"

No answer.

The tide rose, pushing waves to our feet. She looked down but didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Sure."

"Have you never thought about death?"

"No," I said. "Is that strange?"

A massive wave surged forward. The spray shattered against our shoulders. I took two steps back and looked at her. She remained standing, unmoving.I stood there too, slightly behind her to the left, as if waiting for the next wave to come and sweep her away.

The wave arrived, and she turned to look at me.

The sensation of water choking my throat wasn’t pleasant—if she asked, I’d tell her honestly. That evening by the reservoir, when I chased after my missing classmate to the restroom and found her gone, I immediately rushed back to the water’s edge, calling her name. A distant echo answered, sharper and thinner, like a fake voice. I took off my coat and plunged into the water. The river was icy and heavy. I felt myself sinking. I let myself sink, as if she were down there. When I touched the riverbed, I thought I felt the smooth curve of her foot. I held onto it, and the water enveloped us. I stopped moving and closed my eyes. Yet the light remained, and my breath refused to be snuffed out. The water pressed against me, battering my arms. Just a few more minutes, I thought. A few minutes later, I found myself loosening my grip, surfacing, and swimming toward the shore. By the time I climbed onto the bank, the warmth of that foot still lingered in my palm. When I heard the girl had swallowed sleeping pills at home, I didn’t feel the slightest bit of sorrow. I thought we had already said our goodbyes.

The girl—Momu or Mengmeng—still stood there. Seeming a little tired of the back-and-forth waves, she shook her damp hair, shifted her feet, and took two steps back.

“When will the seaweed come back?” she asked softly.

“There was a little boy who played by the sea in summer, then disappeared. Maybe when the seaweed returns, he’ll be sitting on it.”

“It’s so cold,” the girl said, hugging her shoulders.

“Yeah. A cold front’s coming.”

“I’m actually a little hungry.”

“Then let’s get something to eat.”

“It’s so late—what can I eat without gaining weight?”

“If you gain weight, just go hungry tomorrow.”

“Can you come back here with me again tomorrow? I’ll pay extra.”

“I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Move the day after, then.”

“Come back the day after.”

She followed me as we walked back, the tide chasing our feet before retreating. She tucked her hands into her pockets and exhaled softly:

“I really don’t want to just go home like this. Set the alarm obediently, crawl into bed, then wake up startled from a dream to face the same old Monday again.”

“I’m always happy when I wake up. At least those were just dreams.”

“Let’s meet directly here the day after,” she said as we reached the roadside.

“Dress warmer—it’s going to snow,” I said.

“There’s another song I like by Damien Rice—‘Rootless Tree.’”

“Yeah, that’s a good one.” I pulled a cigarette from the pack. She leaned in, cupping her hands.

As the flame flickered to life, she hummed the song under her breath. The distant sound of waves was like drumbeats. In the long pause between notes, the sky seemed to turn abruptly white.