She had already left quietly while I was asleep. I knew she was next door, but I didn’t disturb her or send any messages.

Two weeks after moving in, I once saw my neighbor stepping out as I came back. I wanted to say hello, but she was on the phone, so I held back. She was beautiful, exactly my type. Long black hair, all black clothes, a sharp face, a high nose bridge. In the hot Shanghai summer, she carried a trace of coolness. I was certain she was a model; ten years in nightclub marketing told me so. The colder she seemed, the more I wanted to get close.

I accidentally came across her on Social Media. Tens of thousands of followers. Her photos were even better than what I’d seen. I followed; she followed back. But I didn’t say anything. I have no idea what to say since nervousness.

One night while working, I saw her post: A five-year relationship ended, like waking from a dream. At twenty-four, I don’t know if I’m still young or already not. I can survive on my looks by being a model, but this isn’t what I want. I moved to Shanghai to bury myself in competition, to forget the man I’d been with for five years. But it doesn’t work. Every time I think of him, the ache in my chest tells me I can’t let go. What’s the meaning of a numb life?

I sat in a corner and posted: At ten each night I start work, booking tables, meeting new clients. Shanghai is built on desire. People search for comfort in numb routines. Some comforts last a night, some a week, then fade. I’ve long been numb, but can’t escape the cycle. Numbness is life’s default. Learning to hold happiness is a skill, so is loving, so is forgetting. Life only goes forward.

Not long after, she posted again: I love Wong Kar-wai’s Chungking Express. In big cities, every skyscraper cuts away a piece of sky, multiplying loneliness. Some couples love across continents. Others share a bed but dream different dreams. The cop and the flight attendant were never meant to last. Neither were the cop and the blonde assassin. Every person’s solitude weaves into a net. I wanted to find meaning in it, but all I feel is strangeness. The deeper into the crowd, the lonelier it feels. Yet some cold wind keeps pushing me forward.

It felt like she was speaking to me, but maybe she wasn’t. Still, I wanted to reply.

That Monday night, work was slow, so I went to a jazz bar. The music was Mia & Sebastian’s Theme. I ordered a Lagavulin 11, neat. Most bars sell the 16; people thought older is better. 

Back in Los Angeles, homesick, I watched B for Busy over forty times. A Shanghainese film about love at home. By then I could recite most of the lines. Good films are like good whisky—each sip carries a beginning, a middle, an aftertaste. Worth savoring repeatedly.

I posted: A Taiwanese director once said: when filmmakers hit fifty, they cram their ideas into films, and the films get worse. I agree. I like directors best when they were young—Jiang Wen’s early fever, Wong Kar-wai’s pre-2000 romance, Ang Lee’s Father Trilogy. What’s precious is our youth: fearless in expression, curious in exploration, respectful of thought. At this age, we’re no longer childish, not yet dulled. This is our golden age. I realized this at seventeen, so I didn’t waste my youth on empty distractions. Though now, my life too is becoming numb.

As my glass was nearly empty, the waiter brought another. I hadn’t ordered it. He said a lady had just left it for me.

His words kept me awake. I grew interested in this man who kept replying with posts. I checked his profile. Artistic, handsome—surprising he worked in nightlife. 

I found a jazz bar near my home, named Seb’s, the same as in my favorite movie. I sat at the bar and ordered a Lagavulin 11. At first I drank whisky because it hit fast. Later I tried different bottles, until it became habit. Habits form easily. When suddenly gone, life feels empty. But when we come and when we leave, we are blank, without habits at all.

I sat on a high stool. Mia & Sebastian’s Theme played again. Even on Monday it was crowded. I saw him in the corner, typing on his phone. I knew he was posting. I sent him a drink. Then I posted: Do you want to meet? We won’t talk. We won’t know each other. We will remain strangers.

I saw her post. I didn’t understand her exact meaning, but I found it interesting. I wrote: See you at the front door. Excitement rose. I finished it quickly.

She read my reply. The front door? How does he know where I live? She thought of asking, but remembered: no words.

I lit a cigarette and saw a man walking toward me. I sat on the steps outside. I had never met my neighbor. As a child in the countryside, neighbors were close like family. Here, I didn’t even know who lived next door.

He pulled out his keys, and I followed him in. The summer night had us both sweating.

I asked, “How did you know I was here?”

He said, “We said no words.”

I said, “Alright.”

We lay down, heat rising between us, and soon, exhausted, we fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, I was alone again.

Not knowing each other meant not knowing each other.