Tu Yao 涂遥

Over the past year or two, I’ve received at least one anonymous call almost every other day. At first, I would answer, thinking it might be something work-related or maybe someone who had forgotten to save their number. But after countless moments of irritation—hanging up on obvious scams or robotic voices—I gradually stopped picking up altogether.

Online, there are plenty of funny videos of people pranking scammers, or even turning the tables on them. It’s amusing, yet I can’t help but feel a little helpless. What a world, full of deception and lies. And then I remember one anonymous call I made long ago, completely different from the flood of scammers that now fill me with fatigue and frustration. That call remains, to this day, a memory that feels tender and strangely charming.

It must have been around my second year of junior high, thirteen or fourteen. Boarding school life was often boring, and in our free moments, my friend Na and I would wander the campus together, chatting about everything and nothing, pondering the little mysteries of adolescence, and, like all girls our age, imagining the life we might have in the future. Sometimes we would indulge in what we thought were bold mischiefs—like sneaking into the gym, spraying the floor with a fire extinguisher, and running away laughing. There weren’t cameras everywhere yet, and at night, the playground was full of couples meeting in secret. If we went for a night run, we’d often spot familiar faces, then return to the dorm to gossip.

One evening, after dinner, we wandered to a public phone booth in front of the teaching building while waiting for class to start. Mobile phones were already common, but as boarding students, we still carried a prepaid card for calling out if necessary.

“Why don’t we just dial a random number and see what happens?” I suggested.

“What if someone picks up? What do we say?” Na asked.

“We’ll just improvise,” I said, grinning.

So we dialed at random. After two or three rings, someone actually answered. We exchanged a wide-eyed glance, trying to act calm.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Who’s this?”

On the other end was a young man, his voice carrying a slight county accent.

“Who is this?”

“Hey, it’s you who called me.”

We didn’t want to reveal our identities, so we exchanged another glance.

“What are you doing?”

“Me? I’m about to go to work.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t seem suspicious. Instead, he chatted patiently.

“Going to work at this hour?”

“Yes, I’m a chef. Evening shift today.”

“A chef, huh? Then we’ll call you Chef Brother.”

“Hahaha, alright.”

He probably realised we were some young naive girls. Looking back, I like to think he found it amusing, maybe even a little delightful. Perhaps his life was also dull—kitchen, home, repeat—and maybe he secretly welcomed these tiny, unexpected moments, like a call from two mischievous middle school girls.

We wrote down his number. When the bell rang, we had to hang up, promising we’d call again, though he couldn’t reach us first.

A week later, we remembered “Chef Brother” and called him again. I don’t recall the exact conversations, but over time, we slowly learned about each other’s lives. We shared school routines and little funny happenings; he shared life as a chef. We never crossed boundaries, never hinted at anything romantic, and never considered meeting in person. Yet every time he picked up, there was a quiet, unmistakable joy in his voice. Listening to a stranger, living in the same city but seeming from another world, recount the simple rhythms of his everyday life was quietly thrilling.

These occasional calls continued for nearly a year, until summer approached, when we learned we’d be moving to another campus for our third year. Perhaps that campus had phone booths too, but something about the change of place made the calls feel different. One day, we told him this might be our last call. Third-year studies would be demanding, and we might not have time to chat anymore. I remember a trace of disappointment in his voice, quickly softened into understanding and encouragement.

“It’s okay. Study hard and get into your dream school!”

“And you, keep cooking well and enjoy your work!”

We laughed over the phone. I thought perhaps we could still call sometimes. But somehow, we never did.

That year, I didn’t study diligently. I spent my days lost in novels and films, dreaming of becoming a film director. Physics, chemistry, and math—the very subjects that are crucial for getting into a prominent high school—felt useless to me.

Now, years later, I haven’t become a film director either. I explore life’s possibilities while accepting the serendipity and changes that come my way, and try to live in the moment. Just like Chef Brother, who once happened upon an anonymous prank call, yet responded kindly, took things as it comes, and continued to converse with sincerity.