15 Square Meters and 1,317 Kilometers

Every morning at six, Mr. Xiong starts his taxi. By 10 p.m., he’ll finally call it a day. Sixteen hours, one seat, hundreds of brief encounters, and still only a voice message away from the people who matter most.

Mr. Xiong is 39 years old. He’s been in Shanghai for four years, but his home has always remained 1,317 kilometers north—in Shenyang, where his wife and 7-year-old daughter live. 

He keeps one hand lightly on the steering wheel as we wait at a red light, eyes scanning the road almost by instinct. His jacket is worn at the cuffs, and there's a faint oil stain on the right shoulder. In the glow of the dashboard, his face looks older than 39—creases settled around his mouth, the kind that don’t come from smiling. He shifts slightly in his seat, then reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror—not to check traffic, but almost out of habit, like it helps him focus.

“She was only three when I left,” he says quietly, eyes flicking downward for the briefest second. “Now she’s in primary school. She likes drawing. I try to send as much money as I can for her classes.” He exhales, almost a sigh.

He drums two fingers once, absently, on the worn faux-leather of the gear shift, then lapses into silence, his mouth set in a thin line. Outside, the light turns green—but for just a moment, we don’t move.

He lives in a rented room no bigger than 15 square meters, and works every day except Chinese New Year, when he finally makes the trip back north. 

“I feel sorry,” he says. “I haven’t been there for her birthdays or weekends. She’s growing up with just her mom. But I can’t afford to stop.”

Mr. Xiong used to drive speedboats for tourists back in Shenyang—a job he describes with a kind of wistful fondness. “It was fun, in the summer. People came to relax. It felt lighter.” But the income was seasonal and unstable, and with a child on the way, he made the decision to move south, hoping that the scale of Shanghai would offer more steady work. 

“I just thought: in a big city, maybe I can earn more. At least make her life more comfortable.”

So he became a taxi driver. Back then, it seemed like a solid job—stable pay, fewer risks. But over the years, Mr. Xiong has watched the tide turn. With the rise of ride-hailing apps like Didi, traditional taxis have steadily lost ground. 

“Customers just open their phones,” he explains. “Didi is cheaper. It’s faster. So fewer people wave us down these days.”

He’s considered switching over. But then he thinks of what that would mean. 

“I have a friend who drives Didi,” he says. “He works from 6 a.m. to 2 in the morning. Every day. The platform takes a bigger cut, so you have to drive much more to make the same money.” His voice hardens slightly. “He got sick last year. Couldn’t afford treatment. He passed away.”

So he stays with the taxi company. “At least I have a base salary,” he says. “I can survive even on bad days. I don’t want to gamble with health. Not anymore.”

Though the days are long and the fares fewer than before, Mr. Xiong tries to find small moments of comfort. He scrolls through photos of his daughter in between rides. “She drew a snowman the other day,” he laughs. “Said it looked like me—short and round.”

Sometimes, he thinks back to his own childhood. “We didn’t have much,” he says, “but we were happy. Winters in Shenyang were magical. The river froze over—we’d skate on it until our noses turned red. We’d build snowmen, light fireworks, just laugh all day.” He pauses, lost for a moment. “Now kids have iPads, classes, schedules. But I still want her to be happy. Even if it’s a different kind of childhood.”

When asked if he plans to return to Shenyang someday, he shrugs. “Maybe when she’s older. When school is done, when things are more settled. But right now… I can’t. I just can’t yet.”

As I sit in the back seat, watching the city lights blur past the window, I realize how many lives like his pass by us every day—quiet, determined, invisible in plain sight. Not every story is loud. Some are stitched slowly, patiently, across distance and time.

Every ride Mr. Xiong takes, every hour he stays awake, is another step toward something he may never fully get to enjoy: a daughter’s sketchbook, a snowman in the yard, a moment when 15 square meters might be traded for something more like home.

Until then, he drives. And drives.