Hold On

Master He Fan:

This afternoon I passed the convenience store at the entrance to my complex. The moment I pulled open the cooler door, cold air rushed out at me. A row of large bottles of cola stood inside, covered in condensation. I stood in front of that cooler for a good half minute. The young woman at the counter asked if I wanted to buy something. I said no, just looking.

See, all these days later, I’m still like this.

There were things I never got to say in time—typed too fast, and the words sank straight to the bottom. I wanted to write them out slowly, by hand, and let them float back up. This letter probably won’t reach you. I don’t have your address, and the platform won’t give a customer a rider’s phone number. But that’s all right. You read it anyway, and after that it’s on me.

Let me start with that day.

September 8th, a Tuesday. I remember it so clearly because I was in meetings all day. My lunch sat at the corner of my desk, going cold, uneaten. By the time I got home it was past four in the afternoon. I sank onto the couch and couldn’t get up again. My hands were shaking, cold sweat breaking out, blackness pulsing at the edges of my vision. I knew it was low blood sugar—my old enemy. I searched the whole apartment and found only half a pack of soda crackers, gone soft with damp.

I ordered delivery sprawled on the couch, my fingers limp. I picked the rice noodle place downstairs and, on a whim, added a bottle of cola. In the notes I wrote: Having a low blood sugar episode. Please prioritize this delivery. Willing to tip 5 yuan.

The moment I sent it, I regretted it. Five yuan—what priority could that buy? I felt pitiful, and ridiculous for feeling pitiful.

Your reply came back instantly:

“Order’s out—I’ll rush it right to you. Hold on!”

Hold on. I stared at those two words for a while. Like someone sinking, and suddenly a hand reaching into the water to lift them up.

A minute later, you sent another message:

“You have low blood sugar and you ordered spicy?”

I looked at my spicy rice noodles and burst out laughing, caught red-handed. No wonder—all my appetite was written right there in the order: spicy, icy, aggressively flavored. The spicy strips at dawn, the hotpot deep in the night, the bitter black coffee that makes me frown when I need to recover during the day. You’d probably figured it out: this person isn’t greedy. She’s barely holding on.

When the doorbell rang, it was faster than any delivery I’d ever had.

I braced myself against the wall to open the door. You stood there, helmet still on, and in your hand, besides the noodles, an extra bottle of cola. The large size, condensation dripping all the way down onto the tile at my doorstep.

You said: “This place’s cola is terrible—harsh, burns. I swapped it for a big one from next door. Drink this.”

“On the way.” I thought about those two words for a long time afterward. The two stores were separated by an entire old street—a one-way road that scooters weren’t even allowed on. There was no “on the way.” You ran.

I took it. Ice cold. The chill climbed all the way up my palm. I don’t know why, but the tears just fell. Maybe because I was too hungry. Maybe because people with low blood sugar cry easily anyway. Or maybe because—that afternoon, I needed someone to tell me “hold on” more than I’d ever needed anything.

You clearly hadn’t expected the scene. You stood frozen at the doorway, not knowing where to put yourself, your voice muffled from inside the helmet:

“Don’t cry, don’t cry—human kindness is alive and well in this world!”

That line was so funny, and so good. Like a slogan off an elementary school blackboard bulletin, delivered with total solemnity by a delivery man dripping with sweat. I cried and laughed at the same time and nearly dropped the cola.

You said “get well soon,” turned, and took the stairs two at a time. Your next order was surely already pinging you.

That night I finished the noodles, drank the broth too. I drank half the cola and had the other half for breakfast the next morning. The low blood sugar had followed me for five years, and for the first time it occurred to me: as long as there was a cold bottle of cola in my hand, life wasn’t so hard.

The tip field originally said five yuan. I stared at it a long time, then changed it to twenty. Not out of embarrassment at tipping too little—I thought it through. Twenty yuan: the cost of your detour for the cola, plus the weight of the words “hold on.” Any more, and you’d probably refuse to take it.

Only after paying did I really look at your name. He Fan. I said it twice and laughed out loud. Boxed lunch. I typed in the chat: “Your name suits you—full of the warmth of everyday life.” Then I thought about it and deleted it. Said to your face it would sound like teasing; written down, too ceremonious.

So let it be written here: Master He Fan, your name matches what you do. Both of them steaming hot.

This letter can’t be sent, so I thought of another way.

It rained again last week. Under the convenience store awning I saw a young rider, water streaming down his helmet, crouching there gnawing on cold bread. I went in and bought a boxed lunch, hot, and handed it over: “Eat it while it’s warm.” He froze for a long moment, then said thank you, his voice hoarse.

As I walked away I said it to myself once: He Fan—boxed lunch. You see? I’ve passed you along.

You said human kindness is alive and well in this world. I used to think that phrase was empty. Now I believe it. Kindness, it turns out, is also in the delivery business—it never arrives empty-handed, and it never rests too long. It stops over at my place today, drinks half a bottle of cola, and tomorrow it’s off running somewhere else.

This letter ends here. I’ve been back to the rice noodle shop twice since, and I told the owner: your cola really is terrible, but the noodles are excellent. The owner laughed. He didn’t get it.

May your orders be plentiful and your roads smooth. Drink water while you ride, and don’t be like me—don’t let yourself go hungry past the point of no return.

One of your regulars (the one who took the cola through her tears)

(This piece is adapted from true events. All names are pseudonyms.)