AnYi 安亦

This is a translation of 《纸痕》mostly by GPT-4. Edited by myself.

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It began this way: Akalin climbed up to the rooftop of the eighteen-storey building. The supermarket owner below glanced up and dialled 110 for the police.

A crowd began to gather at the base of the building. In truth, Akalin had only gone up to light a cigarette. The matchstick got damp halfway through striking, and the nascent flame drew its untimely last breath, turning the match’s head into charred wood. The cigarette wasn’t lit; nor was it discarded. Akalin just held and rolled it between the fingers. As the tobacco scent permeated into the bloodstream, more people started to gather below.

Looking down, Akalin half-raised a hand, still in the pose of holding the cigarette. Thus, the tobacco scent wafted down from the eighteenth floor, inhaled by those who couldn’t perceive its origin, never to be forgotten. On that day, the left side of Akalin was a neatly outlined red, having taken the complete colour from the setting sun; while the right side faded into obscurity, serving as an irregular screen in the subsequent memories of love that prominently belonged to L, K, and Wen. These three didn’t know each other, but that day, they all looked up and saw Akalin’s face.

Don’t question how they saw a face from eighteen floors below. On a suitable night, if you look up, you could also see Chang’e, the moon goddess.

“If” is a hypothetical word. If Akalin had leapt from the eighteenth floor, L would’ve transformed into a supersonic hero, rushing with outstretched arms cloaked in a cape to catch the fall. K would’ve spread out as a human safety net, while Wen would’ve cried. But Akalin just wanted to light that cigarette, which never got ignited. It was two thirty. A nearby tower clock chimed. Akalin discarded the deformed cigarette on the rooftop’s concrete floor. The lift journey from the eighteenth floor to the ground took a good thirty-five seconds — enough time for someone rhythmic to recite a T.S. Eliot poem, listen to the intro of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”, or, perhaps, ponder life.

L chose to ponder, which led to sharing a bed with Akalin. It was a cramped room, so tight that both had to intertwine like a game of Snake to barely fit. They held opposite ends of a piece of paper, tore it, then awkwardly rubbed the jagged edges together, mimicking the intercourse they’d read about in online novels. Translating the electronic words onto paper, they fumbled to replicate the acts. Their skin, lacking the paper’s sharpness, remained smooth; their blood calm, and hormones unchanged.

When L went to the supermarket below to buy a lighter, K was encountered. By then, L had turned into a paper figure, thin and fragile. The receipt K produced was even more delicate than L, prompting L to wipe its form, discard the receipt, before returning to Akalin. The paper’s frayed edges, when wet, became soft, shivering in the wind. When touched tenderly, they could induce unintended pricks, the tiniest of pulls. L might’ve lost the senses but managed to mimic the exact motions from the online novel, though by then Akalin had lost interest and turned to roll some tobacco.

When K arrived to deliver ordered groceries and supplies, L was heading down. While L took out the rubbish, and having turned entirely into paper, rolled up and placed itself into the bin as well. Paper love only lasts until the true nature of paper is realised. K wasn’t made of paper, so there was no fear of being crumpled and thrown away. Still, K was also not destined to be etched on paper for posterity. Instead, memories of K were stored in some hippocampal region, fading over time.

In Akalin’s room, K fragmented into scattered pieces, attaching to tangible objects. A fingerprint left on the bedside lamp switch, hair on the bathroom wall, and a scent near the laundry basket. It sounds like a murder story, but in reality, even ordinary love can be a form of murder. The instant noodles eaten together would eventually be digested along with the memories; words once shared are forgotten even faster. One day, the grocery delivery app malfunctioned, and Akalin switched to a new platform without informing K. From then on, K’s role was replaced. Other delivery platforms provided better services, no longer relying on the favour of a single supermarket. Hence, K concluded that such favours were unnecessary, further fragmenting into data and programmes, integrating into the operating systems of various delivery apps, lost daily amidst the clicks and calls of millions in the city. The reliance of these millions, naturally, weighs much heavier than love.

The supermarket below ceased operations, and Akalin received a message recommending an underground mall across the street. Wen was there, setting up a camera, capturing Akalin within the lens. After shopping at MUJI and buying some stationery, Akalin and Wen exchanged glances, with Akalin striking a pose copied from social media trends.

When the photo was printed, the colours differed from reality. Wen took out some paint to adjust, capturing the true hue from the sunset completely on the eighteenth-floor rooftop. However, there was only enough to paint the left half red. Wen then took the left lift to Akalin’s room, only to find it empty. On the rooftop, the unlit cigarette was picked up by the wind, gracefully floating to the ground. There, more and more people began to gather. What they lifted their heads to see was a giant printed paper figure; the left half was neatly outlined in red, while the right half faded into obscurity.