In my first and second years of university, Mondays through Saturdays were filled with tutoring children. On weekdays, I finished work at 8 p.m.; on weekends, it was 9 to 6. Most evenings, after work, I’d have dinner with him. He was always waiting for me at home.
His role was simple: reheating the single-portion meals his mother had prepared in advance—meals meant only for him, since she didn’t know I’d be coming. I’d pick up a few extra bites on my way over. During dinner, we never watched films. I didn’t have the energy for anything requiring focus. Instead, we’d settle for light television or short comedy clips.
We’d chat for a while, listen to music, or take a quick jog downstairs. And just like that, the day would slip away. Before leaving his flat, I’d carefully pick up any stray strands of my hair, to make sure his mother wouldn’t notice. Then, he’d walk me to the minibus stop downstairs.
Sundays were my only completely free days—no school, no work. We’d watch films, go hiking, or take what we called a “mini-trip,” exploring islands or corners of the city we hadn’t visited before. For a while, though, Sunday nights became a bittersweet routine. When it came time to say goodbye, I’d sometimes cry.
I wasn’t ready to face the coming six days. I dreaded the emotional toll of tutoring children and the monotony of my life, drained of colour and variety.
"Phil: What would you do if you were stuck in one place, and every day was exactly the same, and nothing you did mattered?
Ralph: That about sums it up for me."
This line from Groundhog Day always stayed with me. The story is simple enough: a man travels to a small town in Pennsylvania to report on Groundhog Day—2nd February, the symbolic end of winter. But when he wakes up the next morning, he finds himself back on the same day, stuck in a time loop.
At first, this repetition drives him to despair, even to attempts at suicide. Yet no matter what he does, he always wakes up to the same 2nd February. Eventually, for the sake of a woman he loves, he decides to embrace this unchanging cycle. He learns new skills, helps the townspeople, and wins their affection, including that of the woman he loves. Only then, when the cycle is complete, does he wake up to the “next” day. Winter, at last, is over.
Life, lived day after day, can become a numbing routine. But every now and then, someone comes along and gives it meaning.
Here’s a song to help face tomorrow with courage: Face Tomorrow by Huang Jie-Wei. A song that is both gentle and resolute.
"You gave me myself."
