Don't Go Home

My phone vibrated in the desk drawer while I was staring blankly at the dense higher math formulas on the blackboard. My fingertips touched the cold screen, and when I swiped it open, it was a message from Mom. My heart sank instantly; Mom rarely reaches out first, unless it's something urgent. The message was short but felt like a massive boulder crashing into my calm heart. "Helen, I'm seriously ill. Can you come home and take care of me for a while?" Reading those words, my eyes immediately filled with tears. Although Mom and I weren't very close, she's still my mom after all. I replied right away: "Mom, what's wrong? What illness do you have? Is it serious?" After a long pause, Mom finally answered: "It's just some old issues that suddenly worsened. Let's talk when you get here. I miss you." The weakness between the lines made it impossible for me to say no. I glanced at my class schedule; I had several important classes in the coming week, but compared to Mom's illness, none of that seemed so important anymore. I quickly asked my counselor for leave. When she heard Mom was seriously ill, she approved it right away and even told me to take good care of Mom and to keep the school updated if anything happened. After finishing the leave paperwork, I rushed to open the ticketing app. I was heading to the city where Mom was—that small southern town I'd only been to a few times. I picked the earliest train—it's just after five in the morning. Even though I have to get up early, I want to see Mom as soon as possible. After booking the ticket, I messaged Mom, "Mom, I got the ticket for early tomorrow morning. I should be there around noon." Mom replied quickly, "Okay, be safe on the road. Call me when you arrive." I put down my phone and started packing. Actually, there's not much to pack—just a few changes of clothes and some everyday skincare stuff. After packing, I lay in bed but just couldn't fall asleep. My mind was filled with images of Mom looking sick; the more I thought about it, the more worried I became. Groggy until three in the morning, I got up to wash up, then grabbed my backpack and headed to the train station. The streets at dawn were quiet, with only a few streetlights on. The cold wind hit my face and stung a little. When I arrived at the train station, the waiting hall already had quite a few people. I found a seat, took out my cell phone, and started scrolling through the news, but I just couldn't concentrate. Soon, they began checking tickets. I followed the crowd onto the train and found my seat to sit down. The train slowly started moving, and the scenery outside gradually slipped away behind me. I leaned back in my seat, thinking about how I'd take care of Mom when I saw her, wondering if her illness was really serious. Just as I was lost in these thoughts, some strange bullet screens suddenly appeared right before my eyes. Not on the phone screen, but like in a movie, floating in the air. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I must be hallucinating from being too tired. But when I opened my eyes again, the bullet screens were still there, constantly refreshing. "Don't go! Your mom isn't really sick!" "She's trying to use your college student status to sell you to a man!" "Run! Or you're finished!" Those bullet screen comments stabbed into my heart like sharp knives. I froze—how could there be comments like that? Is someone messing with me? But those comments sounded so certain, they didn't seem fake.