Bro, I'll be honest. I'm 37 now. Back in the day, in the circle, they called me "Human Check-in Machine." During my peak years, I changed phones more often than you do.

Just last week, I had acute gastroenteritis and called 120 myself. Lying in the emergency room getting IV fluids, I wanted a sip of hot water, flipped through my contacts three times, but couldn’t find anyone who could bring it over. In the end, the old man in the bed next to me saw I looked pitiful and shared half a cup.

The house I rent now is sixty square meters, and the living room is stacked with limited-edition sneakers and delivery boxes. At two in the morning, besides the air conditioner humming, there’s not even a sound of turning over. I used to think this was called a lively life, but now I know—it’s a warehouse. I’m just someone who looks after warehouses.

You guys now think hoarding those numbers is cool. I get it too well. Because besides that number, you can’t produce anything that makes you feel at ease enough to wake up in the middle of the night. The thrill of conquering a hundred people isn’t as good as having one person who makes you feel it’s okay to lose.

Don’t talk to me about a 9-point attractiveness score. Right now, I envy the big brother downstairs selling fried rice. Every day after closing, his wife leaves a lamp for him. That warm glow is more dazzling than all the spotlights in your朋友圈’s bars.

When you reach my age, lying on the hospital bed, wanting a sip of water, unable to call out a name, you’ll realize—those numbers you hoarded back then were just ledgers, not life.