Once upon a time, there was a class called the Fruit Class, and the children in this class would all grow into plump fruits. I was in the Fruit Class back then. I remember those times were made up of insects. I would wake up in the morning, brush my teeth, and then meet with the insects. I would walk with them while washing my face, slowly entering some blotchy, sticky patches of colour. I would squat down to look at the ants. Sometimes, those ants gradually grew bigger, and I could see their faces—some kind, some sorrowful, some terrifying, and some ecstatic. Once, I wanted to pat an ant, but I discovered that what I was stretching out was a tentacle. Then I realised that I had also become an ant. I continued to march with them and arrived at the door of the Fruit Class, and found that I could only see under the tables. My classmates had all become enormous, and the teacher’s body shot straight into the sky. I was very scared, and I wanted to escape. The ants grabbed me and said, “What are you running for? Why are you running?” I said, “They will step on me! I don’t want to go in!” They said, “No one will step on you, hurry and go in! Are you still not an ant?” I wailed and cried, “Nonsense! I am not an ant! I don’t want to go with you!” Saying that, I ran back with all my strength. I am not an ant, I am a member of the Fruit Class, I am supposed to grow into a plump fruit. I crawled back through those patches of colour, frantically heading home. The faces were chasing me behind; I didn’t dare look back. Even the gentlest faces had now become very terrifying. I crawled back home, climbed into the washbasin, and tried to drown myself. Clean water filled my body, I died, and then woke up, finding myself still in the Fruit Class. I asked the other classmates, and they all said no one promised that we would definitely grow into plump fruits.

Written in the early hours of February 8, 2024, on my bed at home in Wuhan