I remember seeing the Game Boy for the first time in the winter of '98 in my cousin's down jacket pocket. The old-fashioned gray machine is like a magic brick, and when you press the power button, the pixels of Tetris bounce on the black and white screen, as if turning snowflakes into splicable happiness.

Handheld enlightenment is a silent tacit understanding。 Hide the game console in the pile of textbooks during class, and press the body with a pencil case so that only the edge of the screen is exposed. My tablemate pretended to borrow an eraser, but in fact, he used his spare eyes to peek at me and manipulate Link to chop grass and hunt for treasure in "The Legend of Zelda: Dream Island". When the battery runs out, we tacitly save money on snacks just to replace it with two No. 5 batteries and make Link's sword light shine for another half an hour.

Released in 2003 GBA, the color screen is like a light splitting the monotonous childhood. As Pokemon: Ruby Pikachu flicks his tail across the screen, the orange-red electric light illuminates the eyes of the boys in the class. We exchanged elf cassettes between classes, drew maps with pencils on scratch paper, and debated the best way to play the Jinshui City Gym. On a rainy day, I hid in the attic and used the folding backlit screen of the GBA SP to open "Reversal of the Judgment", the thunder outside the window and the "dissent!" in the courtroom. overlapping, becoming the most shocking sound and picture ensemble in memory.

These handhelds are like pebbles polished by time, the surface is scratched, but the whole galaxy is hidden. They are the secret base in the classroom drawer, the knowing smile of the owner of the game console store at the entrance of the alley, and the heartbeat of exchanging New Year's money for cassette. When you pick up your Switch now, you'll still be reminded of the yellowed Ranch Story cartridge in the GBA card slot — it turns out that we're never chasing pixel precision, it's the freedom to put the world in our pockets.