Watching World Cup Alone
It’s 2:47 AM. The apartment smells like the instant noodles I made twenty minutes ago. The screen is glowing. And I’m the only one screaming.
Match day. Argentina vs France. The final. But here’s the thing — I’m alone. Watching World Cup alone in my tiny studio in Hangzhou, with my roommate gone back to her parents’ place for the week. Just me, a phone propped against a water bottle, and a half-eaten pack of spicy peanuts from the corner store downstairs.
I didn’t plan this. I was supposed to go to Jake’s place. He has a 65-inch screen, a couch that seats six, and a fridge that’s literally always stocked with beer. I had the address saved. I had the train ticket bought on Trip.com for 23.5 yuan. And then at like 6pm, I just… didn’t go.
I told Jake my stomach was acting up. He said “dude come over anyway, we’ll just have less beer.” I said no. I said I’ll watch from home.
And that’s how I ended up here, sitting on my bed in boxers and an oversized t-shirt, scrolling Weibo between plays, occasionally yelling “WHAT” at the referee like he could hear me through the WiFi signal.
You know what’s weird about watching World Cup alone? It’s not lonely exactly. It’s more like — the silence after the whistle hits different. When Mbappé scored that equalizer in the 80th minute, my living room didn’t explode. There was no one to high-five. No one spilling beer on the couch. No one throwing a pillow at the TV. Just the ceiling fan whirring and my own voice echoing back at me off the bare white walls.
I remember in 2018, I was at a bar in Wenzhou with like fifteen strangers I met in line for the bathroom. We all hugged when Croatia equalized. The bartender gave us free shots of baijiu. Some guy started crying. The whole thing felt like a movie scene I’d describe to my grandkids someday.
Tonight it’s just me and the instant noodles getting soggy in the bowl on my desk.
My mom keeps texting. Every four minutes.
“在看球吗” — are you watching the game? “记得早点睡” — remember to sleep early. “赢了吗？” — did they win?
I reply “在看” and put the phone face-down. I don’t tell her I’m alone. I don’t tell her Jake’s invite got declined because some part of me wanted to sit in this quiet. I don’t tell her the ramen cost me 4.5 yuan and tastes like salty cardboard with a chemical aftertaste. I don’t tell her I almost cried during the national anthem and didn’t know why.
She doesn’t need to know.
But I’m telling you. Because at 3am, the Notes app is the only audience that won’t ask follow-up questions.
Half time. Score 2-2. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of cold water because I forgot to buy beer. I had a six-pack in the fridge but it expired in May. I looked at it earlier, pulled one out, looked at the date, said “not today” out loud to nobody, and put it back.
I’m watching the replays on mute now. Just listening to the building’s air conditioning hum and the neighbor’s dog barking at nothing on the street below. It’s almost peaceful. Like a meditation thing, except I’m not meditating, I’m just procrastinating between heart attacks.
Then Messi scored in the 108th minute and I screamed so loud my upstairs neighbor — the one who never says hi in the elevator — knocked on the floor.
Three loud thuds.
I froze. Looked up at the ceiling. Mouthed “sorry.” Waited five seconds. Heard nothing back. Went back to watching.
This is the part where I could say something meaningful. Like “watching alone made me appreciate the company” or “you don’t need a crowd to feel alive.” But that’s bullshit. That’s LinkedIn caption energy. That’s “rise and grind” poster on WeChat Moments energy.
Honestly? It’s just sad.
I wanted to be around people and I chose not to be. And now I’m sitting here at 3:47am feeling the back of my throat hurt from yelling at a screen that can’t hear me. My chest feels tight. My eyes are dry but my jaw keeps clenching. I poured the soggy noodles into the trash. Brushed my teeth. Checked the score one more time on my phone — 3-3, 108th minute.
Watched the last few minutes with the volume off. Read the Weibo comments instead. Everyone’s losing their minds online. Trending hashtags. Memes being made in real time. Someone posted “我一个人在家看决赛，客厅突然响起三声敲地板的声音” — 80,000 likes in ten minutes.
I’m just sitting here thinking — what the hell am I doing with my Tuesday night?
I don’t know when I started treating my own company like a punishment.
I see other people online posting “watching the game alone, no one to share this with 🥲” and it gets thousands of likes. People comment “same.” People tag their exes. People make jokes about being single during the World Cup. “When your only company is your cat and your instant noodles.” Hashtag: #一个人看世界杯. 12.3 million reads.
Maybe I’m just another one of those posts. Maybe my entire emotional arc tonight is content for someone.
Maybe I’m not.
Either way, the final whistle blew. Argentina won on penalties. The internet is on fire. And I’m here in my quiet little apartment with cold water and a phone at 7% battery, writing this in my Notes app because I don’t have anyone to text at 4am about it.
Actually — I do have someone. I have Jake. He’s been texting. “bro you good?” “you watching?” “argentina won, you owe me $20 btw 😂” Three messages, sent over the last two hours.
I typed back “yeah saw it, sending you the $ tomorrow.” Then deleted it. Then retyped it. Then deleted it again. Then locked my phone and put it face-down again.
Okay real talk — I know watching World Cup alone is a “thing” now. Like, it’s almost a vibe. People say “I prefer watching alone, less drama, no one yelling.” Some YouTubers literally made content about it. “POV: you’re watching the World Cup alone at 3am, no one to share this with, just you and the cold instant noodles.” 1.2 million views. 47k likes.
And yeah, sometimes that’s me. Sometimes I do want the quiet. Sometimes I want to process the match without someone yelling in my ear about handball rules and offside calls I don’t understand.
But tonight wasn’t that.
Tonight I wanted Jake and the beer and the 65-inch screen and the chaos and the bad commentary from his cousin Lin who thinks he’s a referee. I wanted the high-fives. I wanted someone to scream “MESSI” with. I wanted to feel like the moment was real because there were witnesses.
And I chose my own bedroom and a 6.1-inch phone and silence.
That’s the part I can’t explain.
I’m not gonna wrap this up nicely. I’m not gonna tell you “it’s okay to be alone” or “the World Cup is about connection.” I don’t buy that. I think sometimes you’re alone because you’re avoiding something. Sometimes you’re alone because you don’t feel like you deserve the company. Sometimes you’re alone because the effort of being social feels heavier than the loneliness. Sometimes you’re alone because you’re tired and you don’t want to perform “fun Jake” tonight. Sometimes you’re alone because you told yourself a small lie at 6pm and then committed to it.
Whatever. The match is over. I won the bet with Jake. I picked Argentina, he picked France, $20 on it through WeChat Pay. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow. WeChat says “已读” on his message asking if I’m okay. Just “已读.” No reply yet. No blue text bubble from him.
I haven’t replied yet either.
It’s almost 4:23am. The street below my window is dead quiet except for one stray cat yowling somewhere near the trash cans by the gate. I open the window a crack — three inches, no more. Cold air comes in. The city smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. There’s a Meituan rider somewhere still delivering late-night food to people who actually have someone to share it with.
I scroll through my camera roll. There are no photos from tonight. No screenshots. No selfies with the screen in the background. No video of the goal. Just a black hole where memories should be.
That’s the thing about watching World Cup alone — you don’t even have proof you were there.
You were there. The score changed. Your heart rate spiked. Your voice cracked when you screamed. But the only record is the WeChat transfer you’ll send tomorrow and a Notes app draft that nobody will read.
I open WeChat again. Type “good game bro.” Delete it. Type “thanks for letting me skip, felt like shit.” Delete it. Type “you up?” Delete it. Lock the phone.
Then I open the Notes app. Write this. Tell myself I’ll post it tomorrow. Tell myself I won’t. Tell myself it doesn’t matter either way.
The thing is — when you watch World Cup alone, the final whistle doesn’t end the match. The match ended for everyone else. For me it’s still going. Still 3-3 in my head. Still waiting for someone to blow the whistle on whatever this is.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll text Jake. Maybe I’ll apologize for not coming. Maybe I’ll make up an excuse that doesn’t even sound believable. Maybe I’ll just say “my stomach was bad, bro” one more time and he’ll let it slide because he always lets it slide.
Maybe I’ll do this again in four years. Maybe worse.
I close the window. Lock the phone. Put it on the charger — 4% battery now, the screen goes dark slowly. The apartment is finally quiet. No more replays. No more commentators. No more Weibo scrolling.
Just the ceiling fan. Just the upstairs neighbor’s tap dripping through the pipes. Just me, in boxers, in the dark, with my Notes app open and my chest still feeling tight for some reason I can’t name.
I don’t turn the light on. I don’t go to bed. I just sit there for a while.
Then I go to bed.
It was 4:47am when I finally lay down. I set an alarm for 9am because I have a 10am standup meeting at work that I’ll pretend to be awake for. I put the phone under my pillow. Closed my eyes. The fan kept spinning. The cat outside stopped yowling. Somewhere in the distance, a car honked twice.
And I thought — if I do this again, the next one, the 2026 World Cup, the 2030 one, the 2034 — I should probably just go to Jake’s. I should probably stop telling myself that being alone is the same as being okay.
But that’s a problem for future me.
Tonight, I’m just going to lie here. Eyes closed. Pretending I’m not the only one in this apartment who knows Argentina won.