After hearing the bad news on my voice mail I immediately rushed to N.'s apartment not far away from my work, despite my manager's entreating and half-threatening glance that I ought to finish the unfinished task. The front door into her apartment was left ajar, but not a trace of illumination coming out of despite the evening's stealthy approach. N.'s boyfriend in Taiwan has just died from a horrific motorcycle accident on the highway, her quivering voice recorded onto my mobile phone.

I looked through the door ajar and saw nothing but a pallor darkness. I called out her name two, three times; nothing audible returned my calling. I made entry into the short corridor and searched timidly with both hands for the light switch. As I got into the living room a faint crying sound was heard. Notwithstanding the pitch-black surrounding, I was familiar with her apartment so as to navigate in the dark without encroaching the many flower pots situated around the room. I found her hugging her knees by the bed, sobbing, the only illumination coming from the moonlit French window that was in the room. I put my arm around her, trying futilely to calm her senses, though the best thing for situations as such is to just let her cry.

Under the moonlight I saw clearly the horror that is transfiguring her delicate, pale face. Her deep-set black eyes, normally with a depth of sarcasm and confidence, are now filled with tears, and their breadths replaced with a profound helplessness. Her face, lined with streaks of dry and wet tears, no longer exudes that proud lineament. I, holding her still, sat quietly by her on the cold hardwood floor, not knowing the right things to say, was as incapable as she is now. The apartment is filled with a deadpen quietness, and everything external was heard: the clatter of dropped utensils from next door; the purring sound of stray cats lingering atop the roof; and the tipsy singing of her neighbor who is perpetually slightly drunk. Every sound, every movement of the outside world seemed so cruel and heartless, while I caressed her gently so as to invalidate her sensitiveness to foreign noise. Episodically she convulsed under the strain of his nonbeing: it was the first time that she and I both felt the encompassment of death. We just sat there, spoke nothing, and let fate take its toll upon her smitten, rumpled soul.

That was four days ago. N. is now on a flight back to Taipei, to gather her memory up and to prepare for the funeral arrangement. My mind, when seeing her off at the airport, was interlaced with sorrow, sadness, shock and a tiny tinge of indifference -- indifference! I blame myself for not been able to fully share the burden of her tragedy, for my heart is gradually hardened by my voluntary confinement.