The year Lin Zhaoyuan turned thirty-seven,
for the first time, he didn't get out of bed when the alarm rang.
6:30 a.m.
The alarm sounded once.
Then again.
When it rang the third time, he reached out and turned it off—but still didn't move.
The sky outside hadn't brightened yet. The room was filled with a dull gray light. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds and felt a strange emptiness settle in his chest.
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't discomfort.
It was the feeling of being already exhausted before the day had even begun.
He sat up. The moment his feet touched the floor, a dull ache rose from his knees. His shoulders felt stiff. At thirty-seven, his body had started reminding him, in small but persistent ways, that it was no longer what it used to be.
The bathroom light flicked on.
The man in the mirror stood straight, yet felt unfamiliar.
Deep-set brows. Dull eyes. No weight gain, but no vitality either. Lin Zhaoyuan stared at the face for a few seconds before slowly realizing—it was his own.
When he was younger, he wasn't particularly handsome, but he had energy.
That energy had gone somewhere over the years. What remained was a shape smoothed down by time—quiet, harmless, and painfully unremarkable.
He washed his face, changed his clothes, and left the apartment, just like any other day.
On the way to work, he passed a group of young people riding electric scooters.
Earphones in, hair messy, voices loud. They laughed without restraint as they sped by. As one of them passed him, Lin caught the scent of sweat mixed with wind—and for some reason, it felt alive.
In that instant, a thought surfaced without warning:
Why does their future seem so wide open?
And his—
why did it feel like a corridor slowly narrowing?
Not all at once.
Little by little.
Everything at the office was the same.
A younger colleague had just been promoted, his voice noticeably louder during meetings. A manager from another department had successfully jumped to a bigger company—rumor had it his salary doubled. Even a former classmate from university, someone who used to struggle academically, had posted photos online announcing a startup success.
Then there was Lin Zhaoyuan.
He handled the tasks others didn't want—work that was safe, low-risk, and unlikely to earn recognition. His pay sat squarely in the middle: not impressive, not worrying.
When people talked about him, they often used three words:
"Stable."
"Reliable."
"Easy to work with."
Lin used to think those were compliments.
But at some point, he realized those words together sounded more like a gentle dismissal.
Not outstanding. Not essential.
That afternoon, his supervisor returned his proposal.
Just one sentence:
"Overall, it's fine—but it lacks impact."
The tone wasn't harsh. If anything, it was polite.
Lin nodded and said, "Okay."
Back at his desk, he reopened the file and stared at the screen for a long time without touching the keyboard.
A realization surfaced quietly:
He hadn't seriously thought about what came next in a very long time.
It wasn't that he had no options.
It was that every option triggered the same instinct—to retreat.
Change jobs?
Too old. Too risky. Too easy to be dismissed with, "Your competitiveness isn't quite there."
Start a business?
Even worse.
Fear of failure. Fear of losing his savings. Fear of disappointing his parents. Fear of proving, in the end, that he simply wasn't capable enough.
The problem with middle age was never the lack of paths.
It was that every path came with a cost he could no longer afford.
By the time he left work, the sky had already darkened.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the building, Lin watched the crowd disperse. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go—someone to meet, something urgent waiting for them.
He walked among them and suddenly felt a strange illusion:
As if he had been moving for a long time,
yet had never truly left the same spot.
He stopped near the subway entrance.
A breeze swept through the street, carrying a faint chill.
For the first time, in that ordinary moment, he asked himself clearly:
"If I keep living like this for another five years… what will I become?"
There was no answer.
But the question lodged itself like a thin, sharp thorn,
staying with him.
At that moment, Lin Zhaoyuan didn't know it yet—
He had already stopped at a pier in his life.
And this was only the beginning.