These past few days, I've occasionally felt a dull pain in my wrist. At first, I thought it was just from sleeping on my hand and didn't pay much attention to it, until I noticed something was off while making instant noodles tonight.

The reason for this was that while binge-watching a show late at night, I got hungry, and it was already close to midnight. As a single girl, I thought it wasn't safe to order takeout at this hour, so I decided to make a bowl of instant noodles to fill my stomach. For someone who often stays up late, instant noodles, hot dogs, drinks, and beer are all essentials. They aren't exactly gourmet, but they can do in a pinch. If I were to trace back when I developed the habit of staying up late, it would be quite a task; it seems to have started before I was five. As for the habit of snacking at night, that seems to have begun in middle school. I don't know if every child going through a growth spurt feels hungry often, but I remember getting scolded for making late-night snacks. Maybe I really was clueless back then, and my stomach certainly didn't help. Why is it that others can be full with three meals a day, while I have to supplement with a late-night snack, wasting food and disturbing the adults?

After moving to a boarding school in high school, the habit of snacking at night didn't change. Even though my pocket money was limited, various cheap snacks would often appear in my cupboard. I guess I got used to it; if I didn't have a late-night snack before bed, I couldn't sleep soundly all night. Later, when I developed a stomach issue, it became a convenient excuse, and I started to feel more justified in my eating habits.

While waiting for the water to boil, I opened the instant noodle cup, took out the noodle block from its individual packaging, and tore open the various seasoning packets to sprinkle on the noodles. If I had a marinated egg or hot dog, I would add it at this step. Once that was done, the water was just about boiling. I poured the scalding hot water in a circular motion over the noodles, trying to pour enough to cover the seasonings. Then, I put the lid back on and pressed it down with a book, a box of tissues, or whatever was handy, patiently waiting for five to six minutes. If I wanted the noodles to be chewier, I would wait a minute or a minute and a half less; if I wanted them softer, I would wait a bit longer. In short, it all depended on my preference.

If I didn't mind the trouble, instant noodles cooked in boiling water taste better than those soaked in hot water. I think it might be the result of the seasonings fully blending with the noodles. Occasionally, I would fry an egg to put on top of the noodles or add some greens just before taking them off the heat. If I felt there were too many unknown additives in the seasoning, I would make my own sauce with soy sauce, sesame oil, and the like.

This time, since I was traveling, even though the rental room had an induction cooker, there were no pots, bowls, or various seasonings, so I was too lazy to cook.

The instant noodles were a new cilantro flavor, and the double seasoning packet of cilantro suited my taste, so I stocked up on a few.

When the water boiled and I poured it over the noodles, my wrist felt heavy, and the splattered broth stained my clothes, but I didn't mind. After pouring the water, I turned to glance at the tissue box and the book on the coffee table, holding the instant noodles with both hands as I walked to the living room. I was still thinking about how I needed to get something to weigh down the lid in the kitchen, and after making the noodles, I would have to carry it out, which seemed too troublesome; it would be easier to just take it to the living room. As the noodles hovered above the coffee table, my wrist felt heavy again, and before I could react, the noodles fell straight down. In an instant, the coffee table, floor, sofa, and TV cabinet were all splattered with the broth, and the noodle block flew half a meter away due to inertia.

Seeing this scene, my first reaction was to freeze. Oh no, I've caused trouble again. Am I going to get scolded? I instinctively glanced at the tightly closed front door.

About a minute later, I finally came to my senses. I picked up the trash can and the tissues from the table to start cleaning up the mess. The noodle block, just soaked in boiling water, was still hot in my hands, but I didn't care; I used the fork I had for eating the noodles to put it back in the cup and tossed it into the trash can. The sauce that had already melted was greasy and smelled strong. But I didn't find it fragrant at all; I just wanted to get rid of this hassle as quickly as possible.

After about ten minutes, I had used up two packs of tissues to barely finish cleaning, and the room still smelled of greasy sauce. Even though opening the windows at this hour would easily invite mosquitoes, I opened all the windows and doors except for the front door. It was only then that I remembered the broth that had stained my clothes. So, I took a shower, did laundry, and cleaned up again.

After I finished all this, I don't know if it was psychological, but I really felt the smell in the room had lessened. Just as I relaxed a bit, my stomach started growling again.

So, I boiled water again and made instant noodles. But once I had them ready, I wasn't hungry anymore. So, I opened my computer and started writing this article.

My wrist still ached faintly. The last time it was serious, I couldn't hold a knife steadily for several days and had to give up my beloved chef job. But during these days, I haven't been doing any high-intensity kitchen work! The only explanation could be that I'm getting old.

Looking at that bowl of instant noodles, I could occasionally smell the sauce, or maybe it was coming from the floor. I knew my parents weren't around, and spilling a bowl of instant noodles really wasn't a big deal, but the fear in my heart lingered. It seemed that in their eyes, I would never be more important than objects. When sparks flew from the microwave, I took the risk to unplug it, only to be scolded. They weren't concerned about my safety; they were convinced I had put something in the microwave that shouldn't have been there and were upset that I had ruined a perfectly good microwave. My father modified the air conditioning power strip without permission, causing a poor connection. When I asked him to fix it, he said he was busy drinking and couldn't help me. So, I learned from Baidu how to fix the wiring myself. Afterwards, my father not only didn't worry about my safety but also said that as an old electrician, he had someone to take over for him, so he wouldn't have to worry anymore.

Suddenly, I remembered that today is Father's Day. Perhaps that bowl of accidentally spilled instant noodles was a reminder to me; thinking about it this way, it doesn't seem so absurd.

I won't deny that I have resentment towards my parents. Although I pretend to be filial on the surface, behind it lies a pit. I suddenly remembered a boy I used to like very much. I trusted him and told him the truth about my family background. But he sided with my father. So, we drifted apart.

If my family background is a deep abyss, have I escaped from it? But the fear from a moment ago reminds me that I haven't. When will I heal? It's uncertain...

The noodles are almost ready. Even though I have no appetite, I still choose to eat them; perhaps what awaits me is a night of stomach pain. "If you eat, you have to take responsibility," my parents would say this quite gently. I wonder if they, over two thousand kilometers away, would praise me for being sensible as they see me eating tasteless instant noodles, or if they would scold me for being a money-wasting burden. Luckily, these words won't reach them; otherwise, they would have another handle to control me.

Perhaps, there are no parents without faults in this world. Perhaps, a family background is like a damp cotton coat. Perhaps, I will never again have the ability to feel love and happiness in this lifetime. Perhaps, heaven will make me realize what sins I committed in my past life.

There are still a few cans of cold beer in the fridge, and the night is quiet.

The end