Chapter 3: The Ghosts We Left Behind

I really missed them, but I was also afraid to see them.

It’s strange—how nostalgia and dread can live in your chest at the same time. I wanted to go back, but I knew things could never be the same.

People change just like that. You can’t always figure out what women are thinking, but men are the same everywhere. The guys who drank, fought, and played StarCraft with you back then, when you meet again, have become insurance salesmen spouting motivational slogans. You want to reminisce about the past, they want to talk about 401(k)s. You want to know how they’re doing, but they only care about your job and salary. That kind of hollow, rootless feeling—only people who’ve lived in a shared dorm can understand.

Sometimes I’d run into old friends at the grocery store, both of us awkwardly pretending we didn’t see the beer and ramen in each other’s carts. The past sat between us, heavy and silent.

Sitting by the window, looking outside, the alleys in Flagstaff’s suburbs were stifling in the hot wind. An old man on a bike fell at the curb, and the eggs in his plastic bag broke all over the ground. The old man lay there cursing. A young guy walked over to look, then turned and went into the gaming lounge by the road. In the window was a big sign: "$2 an hour, $10 for an all-nighter, member card—recharge $100 get $100, buy ramen get a free sausage."

I watched the scene unfold, half-amused, half-sad. That young guy could have been me, ten years ago. The sign in the window was written in crooked Sharpie, like some secret code for lost souls.

I thought about it, and the prices hadn’t changed much since my college days. I stared at the gaming lounge for a while, feeling more and more nostalgic. Through the barred second-floor window, I saw the yellowed flat screens, moths fluttering around the fluorescent lights, dusty bottles of cheap whiskey on the bar shelf, a poster of a Protoss zealot on the wall—it was almost exactly like Blue Moon back then. In a daze, I imagined the people sitting in front of those glowing screens were our younger selves, and the one pointing at the monitor with a forkful of instant noodles was the me who had just grown a mustache.

It was like watching my own life play out in a parallel universe. For a second, I almost believed I could walk in and find everyone waiting for me.

I shivered and looked again—everything had changed. The gaming lounge was brand new, and the losers inside were new too. The old man pushed his bike away, limping. The plastic bag dripped yellow liquid, and the eggs on the asphalt were nearly cooked.

Reality snapped back into focus, and I felt a pang of loss. The world had moved on, whether I liked it or not.

At that moment, my phone beeped again. Another message from Derek: "By the way, if you have time, go visit that person. It’s been a long time since any of us have gone. Always avoiding it isn’t good. We’ll talk more when we meet. Don’t be late. If you’re late, you’ll be fined to drink—drink yourself to death, that’s the rule."

My stomach twisted. Derek never minced words, but this time his tone was different—almost pleading. I felt a heaviness settle in my chest.

That person.

Those words stabbed me in the gut, like downing a shot of icy whiskey with a frozen fish bone inside. Most of the time, life is peaceful but hopeless—work, eat, play games, jerk off, sleep. Memories and regrets are buried deep in the mud at the back of my mind, sticky and murky. Unless you split your skull open, you can’t dig them out.

I stared at the message, knowing exactly who he meant, but wishing I could pretend otherwise. Some wounds never really heal.

That person.

I went to the fridge for a bottle of Bud Light, bit the cap off, sat on the sofa, and gulped half the bottle. My roommate poked his head out and said, "Why are you drinking in broad daylight? Broke up with your girl again? Come play 2v2 with me and help me get my record to a cool 200 wins and 50 losses. I’ll treat you to wings and edamame and real draft beer, but we’ll split the bill, okay?"

I said, "Get lost."

He snorted and went back to his game, the rapid-fire mouse clicks echoing through the thin walls. I turned up the TV to drown him out.

My alcohol tolerance is exactly one bottle of Bud Light. After half a bottle, I was already dizzy. I turned on the TV—Gilligan’s Island was playing. I started thinking about the person Derek mentioned. When I dredged through the mud in my brain, a bunch of rotten, stinking stuff floated up. As soon as I started, it was like pulling up a string of sausages—couldn’t shake it off, couldn’t tear it away.

The old theme song played in the background, and I felt myself sinking into memories I’d tried to bury years ago. It was all coming back, whether I wanted it or not.

It happened in the first semester of junior year.

I could picture the dorm, the way it smelled of instant noodles and dirty socks. We were all a little older, a little more tired, but still chasing the same dreams.

Our dorm’s Number Seven was a hardcore gamer, even more obsessed with StarCraft than any of us. He was from Idaho, thin and small, wore glasses, heavy accent, but a likable guy. The first computer in our dorm was an old Dell his family sent—a Pentium 233, 128MB RAM, 3.2GB hard drive, 15-inch flat screen. It took six minutes just to boot into Windows, and ten more to load StarCraft.

That old Dell was a dinosaur, but we treated it like a sacred relic. Number Seven would polish the screen with his sleeve and threaten anyone who got too close with a rolled-up magazine.

But we treated that computer like a treasure, placing it in the center of the desk. At 6:30 every morning, someone would jump out of bed to turn it on, toothbrush in mouth, fighting for the first game. Before the power went out at 11 p.m., the screen was always surrounded by heads—either watching Japanese movies or arguing over pro StarCraft matches. That summer, a few of us stayed at school, so the dorm had power all the time. The old computer ran day and night for two months, only shutting down when it blue-screened or overheated.

That computer’s whirring fan was the heartbeat of our dorm. If it crashed, we’d crowd around with screwdrivers and prayers, hoping for a miracle.

In the second half of sophomore year, the dorm got internet. Under the pretense of "studying computers," we gradually bought our own PCs. Number Seven’s old Dell retired, sold for fifty bucks to a junk collector. The day after, he carried back a brand new custom-built PC from Best Buy—top specs for the time, led by a TNT2 Pro graphics card, costing over two grand, not counting the high-power UPS.

The arrival of that machine was like the Second Coming. We all gathered around as he booted it up for the first time, jaws slack with envy. The screen glowed so bright, it hurt your eyes.

We all drooled over the 19-inch Sony Trinitron monitor, but Number Seven made a shocking move. He bought a small table, set up the computer on his upper bunk by the door, put a BIOS password on it, hung a curtain, and declared that the computer was no longer for public use. Behind the curtain was his private space. If we wanted to play StarCraft over LAN, we could call him, but if we wanted to borrow his computer for movies or games, sorry, no way.

The rest of us felt betrayed. For weeks, we tried to bribe him with snacks, favors, even promising to let him pick teams in basketball. Nothing worked. That curtain became a wall.

At first, we didn’t get it. We got him drunk a few times and learned that the two grand for the computer was his tuition and three months’ living expenses. The resident advisor and bursar’s office hounded him daily for money. He kept stalling and had already been summoned by the dean several times.

Derek was so angry he smashed half a case of Bud Light with a chair and said, "Number Seven, go return the computer at Best Buy right now. We may not take college seriously, but at least we’re here for a diploma. Look at Number Six—he failed so many classes in freshman year, but last semester he made up seven classes in one go, all passed with good cheat notes. Look at you—six failed classes and you still haven’t retaken them, and now you owe tuition. Do you not want to graduate?"

Number Seven hiccupped and said, "College is nothing, diplomas are nothing. I’m going to be a pro StarCraft player. Once I master cloning and three-line control, get my APM to 300, and rush with dark templars, I’ll cut down anyone. With perfect storms, the pros will be nothing. I’ll win WCG and be in Blizzard’s Hall of Fame. From now on, don’t try to talk me into class. My life’s goal is StarCraft. If you don’t like it, 1v1 me. If you beat me, I’ll shut up."

His obsession was total, almost scary. He’d recite strategies in his sleep, waking us up with mumbled Zerg rush plans.

Derek rolled up his sleeves to beat him, but we held him back. He panted and said, "Number Seven, if you’ve got guts, let’s go back to the dorm and play StarCraft. If I win, you return the computer tomorrow. If you win, I’ll never say another word—do whatever you want, die behind that curtain and I won’t care."

"Whoever doesn’t play is a loser," Number Seven shot back, sticking out his neck.

The two of them overturned the table and stormed out of the restaurant. We hurried after them. Number Five paid the bill and caught up. It was after 8 p.m. and the campus was crowded. Derek and Number Seven shouted about their duel, and word spread quickly. The campus network was slow, but we had a StarCraft server called BlueFan. Number Seven had 255 wins and 127 losses on BlueFan, top ten, but not outstanding.

The match became the talk of the night—word spread across campus like wildfire. By the time we got back to the dorm, there was already a crowd waiting.

Derek, though big and burly, had the fastest hands among us. With his 6D zergling rush and hydra flood, he dominated, with a record of 144 wins and 29 losses, ranking second. Their bet attracted the whole server. The admin personally set up a Lost Temple map, spectator mode, waiting for them to join. At that moment, it was the only server, and everyone stopped to watch.

Our dorm was packed with over thirty people, even the balcony was full. Derek sat at the desk, face red, waiting for his computer to boot, picking out the mouse wheel to clean. Number Seven hid behind his curtain on the top bunk, the red light of his Logitech MX300 flashing.

You could feel the tension crackle. Someone started a betting pool, and people picked sides, whispering their odds. I can still see Derek’s jaw set like stone, determination burning in his eyes.

In the crowd, Number Four craned his neck, peeking behind the curtain, and said Number Seven was so drunk he couldn’t open his eyes—he was sure to lose.

A few minutes later, the battle began. Derek did a 6D zergling rush, but Number Seven countered with a 5D rush and wiped him out.

A collective gasp. The underdog had pulled off the impossible. Suddenly, the room was on fire with energy.

Derek demanded best two out of three.

Second game, Derek did hydra flood, but got killed by high templars, had to GG.

Then best three out of five.

Then best four out of seven.

Then best five out of nine.

Finally, the BlueFan admin couldn’t take it and declared Number Seven the winner, shutting down the server ten minutes before lights out.

It was chaos—people shouting, some cheering, some groaning at lost bets. The dorm felt alive in a way I’d never experienced before or since.

Derek let go of the mouse, staring blankly at the disconnected StarCraft screen. Number Four lifted the curtain to check, and found the winner asleep on the keyboard, a big puddle between his legs—no one had noticed in the excitement.

That night became legend. We joked about it for years, but deep down, it was the first time we realized Number Seven might have been in deeper trouble than we wanted to admit.

Number Five asked what to do.

Derek said, "What else? A real man keeps his word. From now on, anyone who bothers him is an asshole."

After that, Derek really never said another word to Number Seven. I don’t know if that was keeping his word or being a bit heartless.

The mood in the dorm changed after that. Number Seven drifted further away, and we let him. Sometimes, silence feels safer than confrontation.

After summer break, Number Six had failed so many classes that his dad was called in. His father took off his belt and spanked him outside the office, the whole college watching. This sob story let Number Six barely move up to junior year. As for us, who only failed a class or two each time, the teachers didn’t notice, and we became juniors, able to hit on freshman girls in clubs.

It was the talk of campus for a week—the sight of Number Six’s dad chasing him around the admin building with a belt, cursing in a mix of Spanish and English. We teased him about it until graduation.

Number Seven was held back. He failed seven out of eight classes that semester, including PE, which you pass just by showing up. The only class he passed was an elective on adolescent sexual health, and he got a surprisingly high grade.

He joked that at least he’d be prepared if he ever found a girlfriend. We all laughed, but there was an edge to it.

The resident advisor took a bus to Number Seven’s home, five hundred miles away, stuck the report card on the door, and left. His parents dropped their tools and chased after the advisor, crying and begging.

The advisor said, "Your kid is smart, but just can’t turn the corner. Can playing games feed you? A college student who doesn’t study, just plays games in the dorm, and fails all his exams—keeping such a student is a disaster. He needs to be disciplined or expelled." His parents begged for another chance, promising to discipline him.

The advisor said, "Then call him out to talk."

His dad said in surprise, "Isn’t he working at school? When did he come home?"

It turned out Number Seven told the school he was going home to work, and told his parents he was working at school. He just wandered around the campus, then went back to the dorm and never left. That summer, Number Two worked at the flea market selling spicy noodles, and every night brought Number Seven some noodles and a meat bun. Without him, Number Seven might have starved in bed.

Sometimes, you don’t realize how far someone’s fallen until you see how they live. We all knew Number Seven was spiraling, but none of us really knew how to help. It was easier to look away.

According to Number Two, he never saw Number Seven get out of bed. He was lining up empty Gatorade bottles at the foot of his bed, the labels curling from old condensation, but no one knew how he pooped. He never saw Number Seven eat—if you gave him food, he’d eat; if not, he wouldn’t. He stared at the screen all day, muttering to himself.

The room smelled like stale sweat and old noodles, but after a while, it just faded into the background. We joked about it, but nobody really laughed.

Number Two said, in the morning when he woke up, Number Seven was gaming. At night when he got back, Number Seven hadn’t moved. Sometimes, waking up at night to pee, he’d still see the colored lights from behind the curtain.

None of us were neat freaks, but at least we changed our sheets twice a semester. Number Seven was different. He didn’t change his bedding for a whole year—the blue cotton turned a strange gray-green, the wall by his bed was greasy, his hair stuck in clumps. Oddly, it didn’t smell bad near his bed, just a faint sour odor. Maybe it was so dirty, it became a harmonious coexistence of man and filth.

But that summer, Number Two was often troubled by the smell, because Number Seven stuffed leftover noodles and buns into plastic bags on his bed. Flagstaff summers are hot, and leftovers quickly turned sour and stank, flies buzzing, but Number Seven didn’t notice. It was as if the world outside the screen was an illusion, and the real universe and meaning of life only existed in the game.

Looking back, I wonder if any of us could have done more. Or if that’s just what we tell ourselves, to feel better about letting things slide.

One day, Number Two couldn’t take it anymore. He climbed up, cleaned out the pee bottles and trash, and told Number Seven to get down, shower, change clothes, and wash his bedding. Number Seven stared at Number Two as if he could see through his skin to the Sony Trinitron screen behind him, his hands flying on the keyboard and mouse. Number Two turned his head stiffly and saw Number Seven had just pulled off a beautiful cloning move—three science vessels’ irradiate perfectly blocked four tanks and two bunkers, the Protoss army broke through, and the opponent immediately typed "gg."

"Ha, my ladder rank went up again. CQ2000, just you wait," Number Seven muttered.

Number Two shivered, climbed down, and closed the curtain. In his words, Number Seven was already crazy. The old Number Seven was gone; now, there was a monster on the bed.

He was right. Two months later, Number Seven really went crazy.

[...continued in paid chapters...]