Tomorrow is Another Day

My work was done. I rode the elevator down to the hall, where people hurried past, their footsteps echoing around me. My ears, attuned to every nuance, allowed me to almost see their faces and feel their hearts. In the rhythm of their steps, I heard a quiet yearning – for the comfort of home.

The rain was waiting as I passed through the revolving door. The receptionist, familiar with me and my work, offered an umbrella with quiet generosity. Her gesture was small, yet it warmed me with gratitude.

Water dripped into the slits between the tiles, loosening them. It was irritating for pedestrians, because when you stepped on a loose tile, water would squeeze out and splash onto the fringe of trousers. The chill of the water against the skin was sharp enough to draw a shiver.

I became blind at the age of eight due to an accident. I walked gingerly along the pavement, my cane tapping the ground with each step. Yet, from time to time, people still bumped into me. They vanished so quickly that I had no chance even to be angry. I soon arrived at the bustling crossroad, halting as the tide of voices swelled into a chorus of murmurs.

I was stopped by a man.

“Sir, don’t go forward. The road is blocked.”

“What had happened?” I asked.

“An accident,” he replied, his voice edged with impatience. “Move along.”

“Cordon off the road quickly,” another man ordered.

I guessed they were police officers.

When I turned around, a woman beside me whispered. “Oh my, how terrible. The boy’s brain matter was splattered across the ground.”

I realized it was a suicide.

A pinch gripped my heart, leaving me powerless. Each night, I battled Death, trying to reclaim its prey. I moved with care. Soon, I reached the nearest bus stop and returned home.

One year ago, I left my job at the massage shop. I did not quit because I lacked skills, but because I longed to pursue something larger than life. My customers had befriended me, often telling me I was the best listener and conversationalist.

Tomorrow would mark my 35th birthday on March 15. It was my last connection with my best friend, Ping, who killed himself on the same day seventeen years ago.

Back in my days at the massage house, the night radio kept me company. One broadcast spoke of the suicide prevention hotline, calling for more counselors. One requirement stood out to me – the counselor must be a true listener. I knew I was. With courage in hand, I reached out and they accepted me. The months that followed were filled with training, shaping me for the work ahead. The first official night of counseling filled me with nerves. I kept reminding myself to be cautious.

When I picked up the call, a man’s sobs rang in my ears.

“I want to die,” he whimpered.

“Sir, what happened? You can tell me,” I said cautiously.

“I’m doomed. Death is my final solution,” he wept. “I had nothing left. I lost my money, my house, my wife, and my son. I’m buried in debt.” His voice broke as he cried again.

“Sir, I’m here. You can tell me everything,” I tried to soothe him.

“I was near fifty, but I have nothing. I fell into a friend’s trap and lost all my savings. Now I’m drowning in debt. My lenders are hunting me down. They would tear me apart if they found me. I have nowhere to go,” he sobbed.

After a pause, he asked through tears, “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here. I’m listening.” I reassured him.

“I stood by the railing on the fourth floor of a shopping mall, staring down,” he choked. “I was afraid - afraid of pain. I felt like a coward.”

“Sir, how long have you been thinking about ending your life?” I asked gently.

“Since my wife drove me out. I became homeless.” His voice broke with despair.

“I slept in a public toilet for a few nights, but the staff drove me away yesterday.” He sobbed again. “I’m doomed. I’ve become useless trash. Now I sit in a park with the liquor I stole from a convenience store. Fifty pills have dissolved in it.”

“Sir, please put the liquor down,” I urged softly. “I know you’ve been through terrible days, but don’t drink it,” I begged.

“No, don’t hold me back. I had no control over my life, but I have control over my death,” he shouted. “I have no control - none,” he wailed again.

“I understand you,” I said. “I know how the feeling of having no control has crushed you.”

“No, you can’t understand me,” he sniffled. “No one has ever been as desperate as I am. Do you know how people’s stares killed me when I picked up scraps at a restaurant? How humiliating it was when even the toilet staff drove me away? I was like garbage – discarded, despised, too dirty for anyone to hold.”

He wept and tried to hang up.

“Sir, don’t go. I’m here. I’m your friend,” I pleaded. “You may think I look down on you, but I never would. I’m blind. My world turned dark at eight years old, when firecrackers exploded before my eyes. I have tasted the full bitterness of despair.”

Suddenly, he stopped crying. “Oh, I’m sorry for you.”

“Please trust me. I’m here with you. Just promise me - don’t drink it,” I urged tenderly.

He stayed silent for a while, and I didn’t push.

Finally, he spoke, his voice faint, “I want to hear your story.”

On the suicidal prevention hotline, speaking of ourselves was a forbidden act. Yet, there were moments when bending that rule felt not only acceptable, but necessary.

“I grew up in a small village, raised by my widowed mother. At eight, just before New Year’s Eve, firecrackers injured my eyes. From that moment, I lost my sight. My world became dark. I couldn’t find a reason to go on living, so I shut myself away in my room all day. I even cut my wrist several times, but each time I was saved. There was no school for blind children until age of ten, so I remained at home for two years. When I was eleven, I was finally sent to a school for the blind.”

He fell silent. “Sir, are you there?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry for you.” He whispered.

“Sir, I’m not trying to compare our suffering. I just want you to know I’m your friend. I understand your pain. Please, promise me, you won’t drink the pills.” I pleaded again.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” he whispered. “You’re kind. You’re good.”

“If you’re still in the park, then I’ll stay here too, talking with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I listened quietly, though I already knew the tale - how he had stumbled into a snare and watched his money vanish. He confessed to his greed, but there was no way to rewind the past.

He put down his drink, and promised he would not end his life – not tonight. He said he would call again.

The clock’s strike echoed through the office, announcing six o’clock. I rose from my seat, stretched my arms, and walked to the window. I couldn’t see the sun’s first ray, but I felt it spill across my face, its warmth reviving me.

It was my first sleepless night.

Today was my thirty-fifth birthday – and also the anniversary of my best friend’s death.

Ping had been my friend at the blind school. He was not blind himself; he worked in the kitchen, helping with chores alongside his adoptive father, who was the cook.

That December was bitterly cold after a full week of snow. Students dragged themselves between the teaching building and dormitory, the pavement hardened into ice, slick and treacherous. Even with canes for support, falls were inevitable.

Chilly air rushed into my lungs as I stepped out of the dormitory gate. Each step on the frozen road was like crossing a mirror of ice. I kept reminding myself be careful. The mail office was only five minutes away, yet that morning the journey felt endless - I had to get the package my mother had sent.

Inevitabley, I lost my footing and fell. I plopped onto the ground, my palms striking the frozen pavement, pain jolting through me. I groped for my cane, but it was gone from reach. Then came two hands – firm, gentle – lifting me from the ground. The boy guided me safely back and retrieved my package. His name was Ping. That fall gave me more than bruises; it gave me a friend.

In our third year at school, we began learning practical skills to prepare us for future jobs. I chose massage. We studied the body’s framework, the structure of bones and joints, and various massage techniques. In class, guests were often invited for practice, and Ping would volunteer as mine. He wriggled and laughed, saying he was ticklish everywhere. Yet each time, he stayed patient and cooperative until I finished the training.

One day, Ping arrived late. Our massage class had already been underway for ten minutes when he came. He sat down on the massage bed, and the moment my hands touched his back, he cried out in pain. I stopped immediately and asked what was wrong. He removed his shirt, and beneath my fingers I felt swollen welts across his back. I stepped away from the lesson and took him outside to the playground. We sat together in silence.

I broke the silence first. “Did your father beat you?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Yes…Often. I’ve grown used to it.”

His voiced dropped. “I’m adopted. When he gets drunk, his anger spills out on me.”

I tried to offer comfort. “My father died when I was three. I had no memory of him at all.”

Weeks later, while we were studying, a loud, desperate cry echoed from the playground. I recognized the voice - it was Ping, and his father.

“Where is my money? You stole my money!”

“No, I didn’t!”

I rushed to the window and shouted. “Ping, is that you?” Then came the crack of whips.

Gripping my cane, I shuffled downstairs, determined to stop his father. When I reached the playground, I shouted for him to stop, but my cries only made his blows harsher. I seized his arm, struggling to wrench the stick away, but he shoved me down, and I fell hard to the ground.

“Mind your own business! He is my son. I can do what I want,” his father roared.

I shouted. “No. You don’t treat him as a son, but as a slave.”

His father’s threat cut the air. “If you interfere, I’ll strike you too.”

Then, he hurled the stick aside and left in anger.

Ping stopped sobbing, and lifted me up. We limped together across the playground until we reached the small garden behind the teaching building. He rolled up his sleeve and I felt the burns on his wrists.

“He did this,” Ping sighed bitterly. “We’re broke. He lost everything to gambling.”

I listened in silence. Ping’s voice hardened. “I’m leaving. I’ll go to Shenzhen to find a job in a factory.” He added. “I saw the ads on the lampposts. They’re calling for workers.”

My heart sank - I knew I was losing him, my dearest friend.

“Don’t be sad,” he said. “I’ll earn more money. I’ll be free. No one will hurt me again.”

I forced a smile, though my heart was breaking. “Yes, you’ll be free. I believe in you.”

Days later, at dusk, Ping appeached at my desk. “I’m going to take the bus.” He whispered. “Two hundred yuan should be enough for the journey.”

My heart broke; tears slipped down my face.

He comforted me. “I’ll call you when I’m in Shenzhen. When you graduate, you can join me. We’ll be together again.”

I packed food for him - a bag of white buns, two bags of biscuits, a hundred yuan hidden beneath. At the school gate, I stood waving my hands hard, tears streaming down my cheeks. Though I could not see him, I felt his footsteps fading farther and farther away. It was as if we would never see each other again.

Six months slipped by without a word from Ping. My last year at school came, and I passed every exam. I poured myself into massages training, readying for the capital city and the promise of work. Then, just before graduation, a call came. I lifted the phone to my ear.

“Are you family of Ping Zhang?” a voice asked.

“No,” I whispered. I’m his best friend.”

“He…he killed himself,” the man said. “We found a letter in his pocket with your name and number. He wanted you to know. The cremation will be in two days.” With that, the man ended the call.

I had intended to go to Shenzhen after graduation, but now he was gone, and it felt like as though a part of my youth had vanished forever. The day he took his own life was my birthday – March 15.

***

I left the office with a clear mind rather than fatigue. The warm scent of bread drew me into a bakery, where I chose a small cake. I carried the plate carefully and walked toward a table.

“Sir, let me help you,” a young woman’s voice rang out.

She took the plate from my hands and set it on a nearby table. “I saw you,” she said, her voice crisp and cheerful.

I don’t know why, but I told her it was my birthday. She cheered happily and brought me a candle. Briskly, she placed it on my small cake.

“Now you have a birthday candle,” she said softly. “I’ll light it, and you can make a wish.”

She began to sing the birthday song. Soon, others joined in. I wept, and she gently handed me a tissue.

“Sir, please be happy. Today is your birthday.”

Yes, I could be happy. For a moment, I felt Ping beside me, and my mother too.

I could not see the light, but I leaned closer to the candle. Its tiny flame warmed my face. I made a wish and blew it out. I bit into the cake, its cream melting in my mouth and sweetening my heart.

At eight o’clock, I started my night shift.

Soon, a call came.

On the other end, a woman was sobbing. I could hear the wind howling, and, now and then, a sharp whoosh of cars speeding by.

“I will jump off this bridge,” she wept. “There is no hope. Life is too bitter.”

“Madam, I’m here. Please talk to me. I’m listening.” I pleaded.

“I have a baby girl, only three years old,” she cried. “But my husband gambled away our money, and we had nothing. He often beat me. Marriage is a nightmare,” she wailed. “But my poor little girl…she would be left alone.”

“Please, don’t jump. Share more with me. I know your life had been very hard, but you can talk with me.” I tried to soothe her.

“He wasn’t so bad at first, but the more money he lost, the worse he became. Gambling turned him into someone evil.” She choked back tears. “My arms are covered in bruises, and my jaw is broken. I can’t endure it anymore.”

“I know he treated you terribly. But don’t treat yourself terribly too. Step away from the bridge. I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” she cried. “I will end my life. I have nothing left. He even wanted me to sell myself for money.”

I heard the wind’s cry. I couldn’t tell if she was standing beyond the bridge rails.

“Madam, I know he is cruel. I feel how hard your life has been. You may not believe you can find a job, but I believe you can. Your little girl is waiting for you – she is your hope. To me, you’re an admirable woman.”

“My little girl is frail, smaller than her peers, but she loves to smile. She is my only hope in this world.”

“Yes, she is your hope. Promise me you won’t jump. Please step back onto the bridge pavement. We can keep talking. You can call me every day. We can talk as long as you like.”

“She is my sun. When her father beat me, she would hug me and say she would take care of me when she grew up.”

“She is such an angel,” I said softly. “You can build a future with her. As long as you’re alive, there is hope. Tonight, go home, say good night to her, and rest. Tomorrow will be another day. Promise me - go back home.”

She calmed down, and at last she said yes.

Hanging up the phone, I was drained. Night and day were no different - I could see nothing, yet I felt I could see everything.