If You Could See the Sun (12)

I lock myself in the last stall with trembling fingers, wincing as the sharp smell of disinfectant assaults my nose. Then I sit down on the closed toilet lid. Try to think.

And all that pops into my head is:

Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern.

So.

It’s happened twice already; it could still mean nothing.

Or maybe it’s an even more common affliction than I realize, and the people suffering from it just tend to keep it to themselves—like irritable bowel syndrome, or herpes.

On that inspiring note, I pull my phone out of my inner blazer pocket. It’s an old Xiaomi, which is pretty much a smartphone for elderly people, but it works, and it’s cheap, so no complaints there.

It takes a few minutes for the home page to load onto the cracked screen, and another few minutes for me to get my VPN working so I can head over to Google.

Finally, I manage to type into the search bar: Have you ever turned invisible before?

And wait, holding my breath.

The results show up almost immediately, and disappointment settles deep in my stomach. It’s all just chicken-soup-for-the-soul advice and anecdotes about being metaphorically invisible, plus a bunch of memes I’m in no mood to scroll through.

But then a related search result catches my eye.

What would you do if you were invisible for a day?

It’s got over two million views already, and thousands of answers. After I’ve filtered through more than a few creepy comments, I’m surprised by the range of answers, and the whiff of eagerness—even desperation—to them. There’s everything from suggestions of espionage and robbery to deleting emails accidentally sent to bosses and taking back old love letters from exes, the kind of things people would normally be too embarrassed to do.

And as I read on, Henry’s words drift back to me: Everything’s a form of power.

Of course, it’s hard to feel very powerful when you’re hiding on top of a toilet. But maybe, just maybe...

Before I can finish the thought, I see another comment buried at the end of the thread, dated back years ago. Some anonymous user had written: Descartes was wrong when he said “To live well, you must live unseen”; Trust me, actually being invisible isn’t anywhere near as fun as y’all think.

I stare down, unblinking, at my cracked screen until my vision blurs. Until the sentence begins to dance around in my head. Trust me... Being invisible...

Then I lean back against the toilet, my heart pounding.

It should be a joke. That’s all. Everyone else in the forum clearly seems to think so—the comment only got six likes, and four dislikes. Plus, the first thing we learned in history was how to separate reliable from unreliable sources, and a now-deactivated, anonymous account’s comment on a website best known for its shitposts is basically the definition of unreliable.

But if, hypothetically speaking, they meant every word—

What would that mean for me?

The bathroom door slams open, breaking through my thoughts, followed by a series of sharp, staggered breaths, like...muffled sobs. I freeze. There’s a rustle of footsteps. The tap turning on. Then a voice speaking over the steady rush of water, low and choked with tears:

“...just want to fucking kill him. This is just—it’s so bad. It’s so fucking bad, and once they get out...”

My mouth falls open.

I almost don’t recognize the voice at first; Rainie always sounds like she’s gushing over some new sponsored hair product on Instagram—which, given her 500K followers, probably isn’t too far from the truth. But there’s still that distinct raspy quality to it, the very quality which made her mother rise to fame, so when she speaks again, I’m certain it’s her.

“No—no—listen, I get that you’re trying to comfort me, and I love you, but you...you don’t understand.” She draws a long, shaky breath. The taps squeak and the water pumps out louder. “This is like, a big fucking deal. If someone leaks it onto Weibo or some shit like that—it’s going to be a witch hunt. It doesn’t matter if it’s technically illegal, they’re all going to blame me anyway, you know they are, they always do and—Oh god, I’m such a fucking idiot. I don’t even know what I was thinking and now—now it’s all over—” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she’s crying again, her sobs rising in pitch and intensity until they barely sound human anymore, more like some wounded animal’s keening.

Guilt stabs at my stomach. The last thing I want is to sit here and listen in on what are clearly some pretty serious private issues, but there’s no way for me to step out now. Not without giving Rainie a heart attack.

I’m still trying to figure out what to do next when I realize the bathroom has gone quiet again, save for the splash of water hitting the sink.

“Is—is someone there?” Rainie calls out.

My heart falters a beat. How could she know—?

Then I look down and see my own shadow spilling around my feet, black and firmly outlined against the light pink floor. My form must’ve returned some moments ago without me knowing.

I grit my teeth. This whole invisibility thing seems about as predictable as Beijing’s pollution—here one second, gone the next.

“Uh, hello?” Rainie tries again, and it’s clear I can’t keep hiding in here any longer.