I stand on a train platform, searching for my next destination.
A Starbucks cup with my name written on it.
A window seat.
Seven empty seats nearby.

The station master announces the train’s departure.
The scenery slides past.

As trains cross one another on different tracks, I wonder:
Which train is truly the one in motion?

The rolling wheels remind me of the wheels that pushed my hospital bed into the ICU.

One had to depart on schedule.
The other was racing against the golden hour of survival.

What they shared was urgency.

I returned to the same body, carrying a body that had lost too much blood.

The blood that left me spread across the hospital bed around me, then beyond it.
My phone lay in the pool of blood.
It seemed to be mourning with me.

I woke up a few times.

Made a few jokes with doctors and nurses.
Made a few jokes with friends.
Made a few jokes with family.

But my blood played a joke on me too.

I vomited blood.
It was the last thing I felt before closing my eyes.

That day,

dark clouds gathered outside the ICU windows.

Yet inside me flowed the blood of one stranger after another.

And I was still me.

The same blood type, different personalities.
The same color, perhaps different nationalities.

My hair grew a few more centimeters.
My life lost a few more minutes.

Breathing continued its cycle.
My consciousness remained suspended somewhere beyond reach.

Inside those blank memories,
inside that small hospital room,

the heart monitor, the ventilator, the IV lines, and the slow transfusions
kept me company in silence.

Time drifted away around me.

Nurses and doctors came and went,
their shifts replacing one another.

But I was an unknown variable.

I heard your voice.
But my eyelids were too heavy,
a weight I could not resist.

I asked you in a café,
“What would you like to drink?”

Then everything dissolved back into a blank screen.
Again and again.
Over and over.

How long had it been?
How much time had passed?

That day—
I couldn’t tell

what time it was,
whether it was sunny or raining,
or even what day of the week.

Your voice woke me.
My eyes flew open.

My heart pounded like one that had been forcibly restarted.

Your voice surrounded me like surround sound,
and in a single instant,
my consciousness returned from a parallel world.

My attending physician saw me wake abruptly.
He was startled too, and called for a nurse.

Before they began the examination,
he told me about you.

He told me I had called your name while unconscious.
He told me about the messages.
He told me the things I needed to know.

Then the “personal conversation” ended,
and the “medical examination” resumed.

I watched the numbers on the blood pressure monitor rise and fall.

As I listened to him talk about you,
it felt as though my body itself had become a lie detector.

How long had I been gone?
The film reel of my memory began to play again.

A wave of nausea and sorrow spread through my chest.

I lay in bed,
staring at a ceiling that must have been painted over countless times
to become so white
that it could almost convince someone they had arrived in heaven.

A strange longing pulled at me,
and consciously,
I drifted back toward that parallel world of unconsciousness.

Sometime later,
my phone vibrated.

I returned to my body once again.

The screen showed a message from you.

Outside, rain tapped against the window.
Inside, I heard your trembling, tear-choked voice.

I was so overwhelmed with sadness
that my reactions slowed.

“You owe me an explanation,” you said.
I knew.

Before the coma,
I was like a boy who said the opposite of what he truly felt to the girl he liked before going to sleep.

After waking up,
the girl had already figured out what had happened.

Yet I felt like a schoolboy standing outside the principal’s office,
called out and left speechless by my attending physician.

I kept staring at the SYS and DIA numbers on the blood pressure monitor,
and my pulse had already told the truth.

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We are used to demonizing "evil," imagining it as a monster from a horror movie—grotesque, roaring, and easily recognized at a single glance. But do you honestly believe that telling good from evil is ever that simple?

In reality, the deepest malice is often wrapped in the fragile shell we call "human nature."

Human beings are far more brittle than we care to admit when confronted with the primal urge to survive and the endless void of personal desire. To stay afloat, or to grasp what was never ours to begin with, we are capable of compromising our moral boundaries in ways that defy imagination. In the grand scheme of our absurdity, telling lies is merely the most basic, baseline survival tactic.

The irony is that if we turn our gaze to the lonely ghosts and lingering spirits we so deeply fear, they appear remarkably pure by comparison.

Their intentions are transparent. Their obsessions are fierce and direct. Whether they seek revenge, longing, or retribution, they never bother to hide it. Their darkness is an open book.

But the living? We harbor bellies full of calculated schemes and dark thoughts, yet we exhaust ourselves trying to convince the world of one thing: “I am a good person.”

We crave validation, desperate for others to like us, so we meticulously camouflage the selfish motives behind our actions. We grasp greedily with one hand while dodging reality and responsibility with the other. This brand of hypocrisy—packaging sheer selfishness as helpless circumstance—is what truly chills the bone.

Looking at this collective crowd, hopelessly lost in their own illusions and vulnerabilities, I cannot help but fall into a deep contemplation.

If we cannot even be honest with ourselves, and if every choice we make is just another layer of paint to cover up an ugly truth, then tell me—

Are humans like us truly worth saving?

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The circular performance hall slowly fades into layered darkness.
At the center of the stage, a 360-degree rotating spotlight moves with a sense of suspense, formally introducing you..

In this five-story-high space, I suddenly feel very small.

Like a lost sheep wandering behind drunken friends, I’ve wandered into an uncertain journey, sitting in the front rows, watching you.

You are wearing a modified high-end suit jacket and a performance vest, like an entrance into some kind of dreamlike Wonderland.

Because you are famous, many people come here just to see you.

You step onto the stage carrying a whip, moving with the precision of a VS runway walk, fully in control of the rhythm.

The entire audience applauds, and I, confused, stand up and clap along.

Your eyes, framed by stage makeup, look dangerous yet mysterious—making people want to approach, yet also run away.

It’s gonna be a great show, I think to myself.

On your private stage, you are not only a performer, but also the one shaping the atmosphere of the entire space.
Every movement, every swing of the whip, feels like it is calibrating the audience’s emotional rhythm.

Hypnosis, danger, and control begin to blend together.
I realize this is not just a performance, but a precisely designed form of psychological manipulation.

You walk toward me but that is only an illusion.
It is simply part of your fixed stage route.

Later I understand: it is the choreography that creates the illusion of being personally targeted.

The show hasn’t officially begun yet.

You say: “It’s show time!”

At that moment, I suddenly want to leave.

I stand up from my seat and search for an exit.
But the music changes tempo, as if pulling me back into a predetermined track.

The entire space feels reprogrammed.
Everyone’s attention is locked onto you at the center of the stage.

Suddenly, the lights go completely black. I can’t see anything, not even my hand.

I stand up again, trying to leave.

And in that moment, I feel as if I’ve fallen into a spiral you have already designed.

I start to wonder—
Am I the audience, or part of what is being watched?

The lights come back on.

You are now wearing a red circus vest and a matching top hat, moving across the side of the stage.
With a swing of your whip, the entire audience loses focus again.

I sit on the right side of the stage. When you pass by, you smile at me.

In that instant, I cannot tell whether it is directed at me, or simply part of the performance.

My adrenaline rises.
I wait for a chance to leave.

During a transition between acts and a lighting change, I stand up and slip out of my seat.

I turn on my phone flashlight and move low through the aisle.

I do not look back.

When I finally find the exit, for a second I worry the door won’t open.
But it does.

In that moment, I feel like the protagonist of The Truman Show, stepping out of a filmed world.

But today, the camera was you.

You are an exceptionally skilled stage performer.
But I am not part of your audience.

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Finally, it’s a rainy day.

Since last night, I had been looking forward to today’s rain, especially after a restless week.

At last, the heavy heat and unstable air trapped inside the apartment drifted away.
Over the past week, the number of times I drank water doubled.
I had no appetite — except for oranges, black coffee, water… and tomatoes.

Today, when I opened the balcony door connected to my room,
a cool breeze brushed across my face.

My unstable thoughts were cooled down,
the excess energy inside me finally lowered in temperature.
There was a kind of “cold calmness” that quieted me.

After wandering around the balcony for a while,
my two dogs noticed my coffee was ready.
Their brunch was ready too.

Rain was never my preference.
But this feeling of being cooled down came just on time.

I watched the raindrops tapping rhythms across the balcony,
and suddenly, I wanted to walk into the rain.

So I finished my Americano in one long sip
and stepped out onto the balcony.

I could smell the unique scent that only rainy days carry —
grass, soil, cooling air, the atmosphere of a Sunday.

A lonely 15-degree daylight.

My skin tingled from the cold,
yet everything felt fresh.

Anxiety and calmness intersected.
Uneasiness and emptiness stood still.
Plans and changes paused for a moment.

I listened to the birds in the trees gossiping about things I would never know.
I don’t understand how they always have so much to talk about.

But as an outsider in this city,
their voices made my weekend feel a little less lonely.

Rain repainted the scenery before my eyes.
Like windshield wipers across a car window,
every second revealed a different frame —
each one unique.

The melancholy of rainy days
has nothing to do with me today.

But thoughts of someone
appeared in my mind.

I hope that today, this Sunday —
no matter if the sky is sunny, cloudy, or rainy —
you are within the same single frame of time with me.

Black coffee,
a simple song —

I think for today,
that is already happiness to me.

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Time stood still. The look in your eyes shifted from embarrassment to a silent “How is this possible?” Mine did the same. Thirteen thousand kilometers of distance, a friend of a friend—and there we were, crossing paths in a restaurant.

“Do you two know each other?” a friend beside me asked.

“We were classmates in Japan,” you replied, crisp and clear.

I knew you would be the one to answer, ensuring that those “beside you” wouldn’t misunderstand. But one thing hadn’t changed: the message in your eyes asking, “How are you?”

I received it, and that is why I didn’t answer. I simply nodded with a smile and walked past you. I remembered your scent vividly, but I knew better—I knew I should leave your line of sight as quickly as possible. From the corner of my eye, I saw you turn back to look at me.

You still had questions.

How long has it been?

That last phone call you made before boarding your flight. Your words were filled with the bitterness of parting; those syllables entered my ears, layer by layer, adding weight to my sorrow. At that moment, you couldn’t stay for me, and I couldn’t stay for you.

I knew then that we might never meet again. Even with mutual friends, whenever our names were mentioned together, they would all go silent.

I eventually went back to LA. I didn’t tell you because I knew how you would react. But it was through that very act that I saw your selfishness and your lies. We became “the name that shall not be spoken” among our friends.

I know we once brushed past each other in Taipei. You intentionally pretended not to see me. I understood the motive behind your actions, so I never exposed you. I used to protect “your lies” like that.

So, the “message” in your eyes after all these years? It’s better that you don’t walk up to me or use those little gestures to create an opening for questions.

I knew what happened to you later, but I didn’t want to ask.

Throughout that dinner with friends, I could feel your gaze. I kept hoping your ruthlessness would kick in. After some time, it finally did.

As dinner ended, the group decided to head to another bar. I planned to make a poor excuse to leave. You saw me talking to our mutual friend, walked over, and asked what we were discussing.

Why did this feel so familiar?

It took me back to that Christmas Eve in Japan. After dinner, the group wanted to go to karaoke. I decided not to join. You immediately gave me a look. A friend said, “Alix, she’s upset because you’re not going.”

I walked toward you. You took a drag of your Mild Seven cigarette and said, “You know I’m flying back to LA tomorrow, right?”

I said I knew, but wouldn’t you be back after the holidays? You gave me a look that said, “Alix, are you truly that oblivious?” Then you muttered, “Whatever,” and turned your back to smoke.

You smoked because you had “something on your mind.” And that night, that “something” was me.

So tonight, what was the purpose of interrupting my conversation?

I took my trench coat from the maître d’, said my thanks, and pushed through the glass doors. I heard the click of high heels behind me and quickened my pace. Outside, you called my name. I stopped, debating whether to turn around.

You walked up behind me, forcing me to turn, just like you did in Japan. I turned and said:

“This is the last time I turn around for you.”

I looked at you without emotion.

“How are you?” you asked.

“Does it matter?” I replied.

“Let’s act as if we never met tonight, as if this conversation never happened. You didn’t see me, and I didn’t see you. Because you are no longer you, and I am no longer me. Just like your last message to me said: ‘It’s unnecessary. Take care.’“

After saying that, I turned away, erasing the memory of the previous second, and quickened my steps.

Seven-degree Paris. I shook my head and walked back to my hotel.

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And on that day, After my hopes had turned to ash,
I ceased to believe in you.
I would rather walk with the darkness
Than remain one of your followers.

The moment I made this choice,
I stopped addressing your name,
For I truly have nothing left to say to you.
How many days did I pour my heart out to you,
Only to stare at the silence of a static void?

My heart, caught between day and night,
How many times has it mended itself in solitude?
I struggle with endless temptations,
And you—where are you?
You merely stand by and watch.

Since that day,
I no longer wish to grasp at a faith blamed on “insufficient conviction.”
For the shackles of faith never showed me mercy.

I am no longer your devotee.
Though being faithless in this world is equally drifting,
I believed in you until I lost myself.
Since you do not care for me, or my silent sighs,
Then I have no need to find myself upon your map.
I truly gave you so much time.
This relationship has become toxic to me.

I know even Satan will not choose me,
For I am in Limbo,
Unable to ascend to Heaven,
Yet unable to fall into Hell.
I have known this for a long time;
I will only wander within this 45-degree dimension.

I know there is someone weeping for me.
But I know, with deep regret, that it is not you.
The very thing that was once my lifeline
Has become, at last, my despair.

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I lifted my cup of coffee and saw bloodstains. I checked my fingers—no cuts. I looked at my two dogs; they hadn’t been injured during our walk.

And then, it happened.

Dizziness hit me like a wave. I felt liquid streaming down from my nasal cavity. Nosebleeds weren’t new to me, but this time, my heart raced, and the vertigo was overwhelming. My coffee hit the ground before I did—the sound of shattering porcelain echoed—just before I collapsed.

The next second, my face was pressed against the floor. Before my eyes was a pool of blood. My blood. Thick and dark red. I couldn’t move. My vision blurred.

“Not today,” I told God. “You’ve picked the wrong date. My dogs need me.”

I fought to “reclaim” myself. Meanwhile, my two dogs paced around the bloodstains like vultures.

The scene flashed back to a few weeks ago: the prescription the doctor handed me. I was caught in a relay race, forced to continue this medication until I could secure an appointment with the next specialist to change it.

In those weeks, the side effects stripped away my identity. I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I struggled to control my actions; my mind would go blank; my appetite vanished. Depression and mania collided within me simultaneously. I lost four kilograms in a single week and continued to avoid food. I barricaded myself at home to prevent any misunderstandings or conflicts.

It was the metallic scent of the blood on the floor that eventually jolted me awake. I didn’t know how much time had passed. I realized how many things were still unfinished, how many words were still unsaid. I realized I still wanted to give myself more time. I realized my dogs couldn’t afford to lose me.

Amidst the conflict of my inner turmoil and my calm exterior, the chemical compounds created a violent tornado inside my body.

I pushed myself up from the floor. The taste of blood was in my mouth, though the stains on my skin had already dried. Perhaps for a moment that day, I truly ceased to exist. I looked at my two dogs, and my worries stretched out into the infinite.

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My eyes and my body move in opposite directions.
My body sinks into the sofa, while my thoughts, like popcorn, keep surging upward.

I begin to collapse in a clockwise direction of π (3.14).

I can’t tell if it’s the effect of the painkillers or an overdose of thinking.
Words begin to submerge the memory of my brain—overloaded.

38.5°C.
The fever won’t break.
How many days has it been?

Can this persistent heat burn away every memory before today?
Scrap them, then discard them, letting them leave my body for good.

None of this is real.
My feelings aren’t real, but the fever is.

That experience… it shouldn’t have existed.
The coffee cup from a second ago is already empty.

I am still in this apartment, doubting memories that never were.
Why does this illusion exist?

No winner, no loser.
Like a lemon effervescent tablet dropped in water—
a brief soda effect, appearing only to vanish in an instant.

—

The phone makes a sound.
A friend proposes a project, but it feels surreal.

The same process, two completely different stories.

“Alix, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hear about this.
It’s not about you—I just don’t want to hear these things being said.”

I know. It’s fine.
I know my other friend would say things even harsher.
I know it all too well.

—

The ticking of the clock replaces the silence of the apartment after you hung up.
I watch the time countdown, a sudden impact crashing straight into my chest.

Vertigo attacks.

I stare at the digital clock, entering a state of hypnosis.
What should I be hypnotizing myself into?

You mocked my tuna salad dinner.
“Alix, you are such a Frenchman!”

I remember you saying that.
But aren’t you the same? American!

—

Nausea.
From the vertigo, a wave of sickness rises.

Emotions begin to ambush me—
the feelings I’ve been tossing aside.

They were sitting right there, on my locker.
But they’ve been waiting to strike.

For what?

I know there is a place
where a new seat has appeared
and a voice has vanished.

Time resets.

But life is like this;
it’s not just the documents and to-do lists on the desk that need handling.

My organs and senses are also “project milestones.”

In the constant reshuffling of every letter I know,
even sugar can become a lethal weapon.

—

The untasted dinner drives me to the bathroom.

The ghost-like fever forces me to check in with painkillers every six hours.
A delirious clarity continues to erode my sanity.

—

The paths in the fields are carved into two distinct tracks by the harvester.

My gaze follows those tracks.
Have I been here before?
What did I do here?

It all seems like a hallucination.

My dog disappears into the waist-high grass.

Suddenly, I can’t hear anything.

The scene of the day I brought him home flashes back.

“No, no, no, not today.
I’m not ready to lose him.
Not today. Don’t play this joke on me.”

Moving through a labyrinth of uncertainty,
like the anxiety of being lost in a jungle,
I call out the name I spent so much heart choosing for you.

No sign of you.

I know it’s not today.

Then I see you, looking so happy.

My world goes quiet.

—

The vortex appears.

A crowd of people is pulling me upward,
because once I get close to that vortex, I’ll be hypnotized.

Language blurs.
Thoughts fracture.

The novel Apartment 16 foretold this for me long ago—
the time, the place, the characters.

Precisely.
Terrifyingly haunting.

—

“Hey Alix, are you still there?”

Didn’t we already hang up? I think to myself.

“Get some rest.
Let me know after you check in with Mindy.
I’m heading out.”

Separation anxiety.

Why is the doorbell ringing so suddenly?

—

Six hours have passed.

The painkillers are about to erode my sanity
once again.

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Two Hours Earlier

The first time our eyes met was when I walked into the bar with my colleagues. Out of professional habit as a bartender, even in a bar I knew well, I pursed my lips and gave you a polite, simple nod. Then, I retreated back into the world shared by my colleagues and me. What I didn’t know was that you were a former colleague of mine. We were booked at the same table.

Seven of us sat at a long wooden table meant for eight, marked with a “Reserved” sign. Samantha, my former colleague and the bartender there, tapped my right shoulder with a drink menu and said, “Alix, you better drink less tonight. I’ll be keeping an eye on you!”

I sighed, thinking to myself: Is this really necessary? Tonight is going to be rough... But there was no way out. My colleagues had literally “dug me out” of my house to get me here. Since they showed so much sincerity, the least I could do was show up.

At first, I didn’t pay much attention to you. After a polite self-introduction, I went to the bar to chat with Samantha. Another colleague of mine was constantly talking to you anyway. Samantha and I were usually great talkers, but tonight, I just sat at the bar, staring at her workstation in a daze.

Samantha walked over. I looked at her seriously and said, “Don’t give me a hard time, not today. I am fine, I just don’t feel like talking. That’s all.”

She looked at me, pausing for five seconds. That silence felt strange. Then she whispered, “I think someone likes you, Alix.” I looked at her and said, “I’m really not in the mood for jokes today. I’m serious.” “You’ll find out later,” she said, turning away to prepare her cocktails.

I frowned at her back, wondering if she was just trying to cheer me up or if it was just a bartender’s occupational habit of talking nonsense.

I walked back to the table and felt someone watching me. I looked up, and for the second time, our eyes met. I gave you a polite smile. “It’s Alix, right? With an ‘e’ or an ‘i’?” you asked me. “It’s an ‘i’, like ice cream.” I don’t know why I chose that to introduce my name. “It’s quite rare to see an ‘i’,” you said. “There are too many ‘e’s, so a little ‘i’ is good to balance out the letters,” I replied (a lame joke...).

You laughed. Suddenly, I found you a bit interesting. “Don’t tell lame jokes, Alix, or she’ll turn into an ice queen!” my colleagues next to me interrupted. You and I shared a wry smile.

You asked me where I was before, because my colleagues told you I used to be in LA. I shared some stories from the past few years, and you listened intently. I caught the scent of your perfume. “It’s YSL, right? That’s your perfume?” “You have a sharp nose. Have you used it?” you asked. “No, but I’ve given it as a gift, so I remember the scent,” I said. “You’re very observant,” you replied, making me feel a bit self-conscious.

“Don’t believe him, Alix is actually very shy in front of people he likes. Don’t let the ‘bad guy’ look fool you; his inside is completely different from his outside!” my colleagues chimed in again. My face turned bright red, and I kept my head down, smiling sheepishly.

“See? we didn’t lie to you. Everything we told you before was true!” As my face burned, I caught those words: “Everything we told you before was true.” Had my colleagues already talked about me to her?

Losing the Rhythm

For the next hour, my head felt like a broken record. Samantha saying “someone likes you,” combined with my colleague’s “everything we told you was true,” made the surrounding noise feel distant.

I admit, I was in a terrible state that day. A certain private, unspeakable heaviness weighed on my chest, causing me to zone out several times while you were talking. I didn’t even try to hide my distraction; my eyes drifted toward the void behind the bar, searching for a gap to breathe.

But you were special. You weren’t bothered by my coldness or silence. Instead, you started telling me absurd stories from your work, imitating strange customers, and telling me about the disaster when you mistook salt for sugar. Your words were like a gentle rhythm, pulling me back from the edge of drowning, time and time again.

“Alix,” you suddenly stopped and looked into my eyes, your voice soft. “It’s a bit loud in here, isn’t it?” I froze for a moment, then nodded. “Go get some air,” you winked at me. “I’ll watch over this glass of melting lame jokes for you.”

I stood up and, as if escaping a crime scene, pushed open the back door and walked into the dark alley behind the bar.

The Alley

The night air was cold, stinging slightly as it entered my lungs. I leaned against the red brick wall, feeling the suffocation wash over me. I hung my head and gasped for air, trying to empty out the accumulated bitterness and exhaustion. I thought I was alone in this alley filled with the smell of exhaust—the only place I could briefly break down.

I let out a sigh, the kind of heavy sigh that felt like my soul was being exhaled. When I turned around, I saw you.

You were standing by the cracked open iron door, half-hidden in the shadows, holding the thin jacket that had been hanging on the back of your chair. You didn’t come over with platitudes; you just stood there quietly, watching me.

In that moment, I saw something in your eyes, it wasn’t the sympathy of a stranger or the curiosity of a new acquaintance, but a warm, genuine tenderness. You handed me the jacket.

“Samantha wasn’t wrong,” you said softly. “But I realized I like you even more like this than the ‘cool guy’ everyone described.”

In that muddy, dark alley, I looked at you. I knew—you saw my mess, you saw my brokenness, but you didn’t turn away.

I knew you liked me, and you knew I felt it. But on that night when my private world was in shambles, I just smiled at you and took the jacket. I didn’t take another step forward. Some stories are most beautiful when they are left exactly there—in a dim, bitter-sweet alley.

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Silence attacks without sound.
The air is freezing.

I am in the middle of the two of you—
not by choice,
but as if I was placed here.

Like a card already dealt.

I don’t know why I am here,
or why I have to play this game.

I’m not familiar with any of it.
Not the rules,
not the roles.

The last time I played,
I was in Singapore,
with a bunch of people that night.
Everyone seemed to know the rules—
except me.

I drank my white wine
without joining the conversation.

Back then,
I was just outside the game.

And now—
I am inside it.

But still not part of it.

I didn’t know
you two knew each other
before I arrived.

I was just passing by,
stopping to bring your wine.
That’s when I saw
the way you greeted each other—

familiar,
like a game already played
many times before.

My ex,
and the next card in your hand.

Maybe I was never a player.
Just a card
used to complete the table.

Card 21.
Le Petit.
No connection to me.

A card with no weight.
No history.
No meaning in this round.

Replaceable.

Clearly,
I am just the excuse.

The missing piece
that makes the game possible.

What a role to play.

I wait to be called—
not because I matter,
but because the rules require it.

I want to leave this table.

But the game has already started.

The past sits across from me.
The future sits beside me.

And I—
I am neither.

Three shots in.
I almost want to finish the whole bottle.

Maybe if I blur enough,
I can disappear from this round.

I can’t believe
you two invited me here.

Or maybe—
you didn’t invite me at all.

Maybe I just filled a space
that needed to be filled.

There is nothing wrong with the past.
Nothing wrong with the future either.

But this moment—
this exact arrangement of people,
of timing,
of roles—

feels like a hand
I never chose,

but still have to play.

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[Content Warning] This article contains raw descriptions of domestic violence, emotional abuse, trauma, and thoughts of homicide. Reader discretion is advised.

I came into this world, or so I’m told, on a bright and sunny day. My grandparents told me this when I was small, and it made me happy because I’ve always loved the summer and the sun. Back then, I didn’t know that this blank sheet of paper—pure, untouched, waiting for a brilliant life to be painted upon it—would, years later, be stained black by the two people closest to me.

The Concerto: Overture

“If killing someone required no trial and carried no guilt, I am certain that at seventeen, I would have driven a knife into my father’s heart. Without hesitation.”

This was the truth for the seventeen-year-old version of me. Right before I walked into the psychiatric clinic, it was the first time I had ever wholeheartedly intended to kill someone. It was as real as it gets.

Now, from the vantage point of where I stand today, looking back over the long decades since my childhood, I find that I have a second target for murder—my mother.

My feelings for her are rooted in a void. She is my biological mother, the blood of my blood, yet she was forced to leave me when I was five. From then on, “Mother” became a forbidden word—a name I could only whisper in the corners of the dark, in that gray hour between night and dawn: “Mom, where are you?”

When I was eight, I had to undergo brain surgery. Every relative who knew of my existence gathered at the hospital. My primary surgeon looked at me—an eight-year-old boy—and asked what he probably thought were a dying child’s final wishes: “Is there anything you want to do? Or anyone you want to see?”

“No,” I replied. But I lied to myself. I wanted to see my mother, but I couldn’t say it. Even at the brink of death, I was managing the room. I knew if I asked for her, my grandmother would break into a stream of curses (she was the most aggressive in blocking my mother from seeing me); and my father was there, standing with “another woman.”

In that moment, my wish wasn’t a wish. My “last will” was impossible. Even though he was my father—an absolute piece of human trash (and I have every right to call him that)—I was still, somehow, looking out for him.

A Lineage of Lies

My parents were never truly “my parents.” They were simply two people on a legal document with whom I shared DNA. We lived a life devoid of any real blood connection.

I have only seven years of memories of my father. He was absent from every school event. He never knew which school I was even attending. When I got into fights and was sent to the dean’s office, it was my grandfather who showed up. In high school, my school was near his office, so we commuted together. Aside from “Good morning,” “Did you eat breakfast?” and “Meet me at the office after school,” there was nothing.

Verbal abuse and emotional blackmail, however, he provided in abundance.

He knew I had undergone brain surgery, yet during one of his meltdowns, he targeted my head. I was eleven. My aunt couldn’t stand it anymore; she rushed over to shield me, holding my terrified body. She screamed at him, “If you don’t know how to help him with his schoolwork, then don’t force it! Why take your own ignorance out on a child?”

My father looked at her and replied: “I’d have been better off giving birth to a pig than to him.”

That sentence planted the seed of “Revenge.” My plan was clear: Father, I will give back to you exactly what you have given to me.

Five minutes after saying those words, he was on the phone, his voice dripping with honey, calling his “fiancée” in Korea. “Sweetheart, how was your day?” I heard it with my own ears. A man completely unrecognizable from the monster five minutes prior.

I wanted to tell that woman so many times: “Run. This man is nothing like the person you think he is.” But I didn’t interfere. She chose him; she could deal with the consequences.

In my father’s life of lies, I was once again the collateral damage. He hid his previous marriage; he hid me. But he couldn’t exactly shove me back into my mother’s womb.

When the “stepmother-to-be” moved in from Korea, she asked my aunt, “Why does your child look so much like your brother?” My aunt was stunned. “Alix isn’t my child,” she said. “He’s my brother’s son.”

You can imagine her shock. And in that moment, through my aunt’s unintentional honesty, a heart that was already shattered broke once more.

You stripped me of my mother. I woke up from a nap one day and suddenly, she was gone. For your own greed and lust, you turned me into your sister’s child. You absolute piece of shit.

From that day on, innocence had nothing to do with me. There was only the debt, and I intended to collect it with interest.

Living as the Ultimate Revenge

He told me, “I’ll pay your tuition until college. After that, you’re on your own.” Fine. Then you’re going to pay every single cent of that tuition.

I knew this man was a liar to the core, and as they say, the devil is in the details. In high school, I told him I wanted to work behind the scenes in the concert industry. He shut me down instantly: “Can you even find a job doing that? I’m not paying for that.” So I went to a boring high school, but I spent all my time creating my own path in performance. Dear Father: what you strip away, I can create myself.

When I didn’t get into my dream university, I didn’t mind. But he came into my room and sneered, “It’s fine if you can’t pass the exams. Going to a factory to be a welder is a skill, too. You need to make yourself ‘useful’ for once.”

My rage finally snapped my last thread of sanity. I was ready to send myself to prison (or juvenile detention, since I was a minor—I had thought it all through). But for him, my father, it would be the end of his “glorious” career. I couldn’t wait for his retribution. I wanted to stand in court and read out every single one of his atrocities, word by word.

Why am I still here? Because as I was preparing to slide that utility knife into his heart, I heard another voice inside me:

“Alix, go see a doctor... This man isn’t worth going to prison for. But you MUST use him. Use him to complete your own goals.”

The next day, I walked into the psychiatric department and asked for professional help.

(To be continued...)

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I chose lane three. No one stood on either side of me. It was 5 PM, and I needed to clear your voice out of my head. I picked up an eleven-pound bowling ball and stepped into position. In that moment, your voice actually disappeared because I refused to lose to it.

The first throw knocked down eight pins. The two that remained stood apart, left and right, like us now—separated, unrelated. It wasn’t that I couldn’t make the spare. The question was whether it was necessary.

On lane seven, someone hit a clean spare. The mark on the screen reminded me of you. The way you crossed me out of your life—clean, but painfully visible. The ball returned along the track, and as I watched it come back, I found myself hoping that you wouldn’t return to my “orbit” either.

I threw a straight ball. Not a single pin fell. That frame was over.

Then I remembered what you said: “I feel boring to play bowling.” That was your response when I asked you to come with me. I asked you why. You just said, “I just don’t like it.”

In the second round, I picked up the ball again. The moment it left my hand, your voice came back. I watched the ball roll down the lane, and it became clear to me—maybe I should have dumped you the moment you said boring, instead of coming here alone, playing with strangers, and still receiving your message: “I am bored.”

Strike.
A big X appeared on the screen, as if confirming something for me. My instinct and my reaction had already agreed with each other.

In the third round, I got into position again. Just as I was about to step forward, your voice appeared once more: “Do you think I should change my hairstyle?” I paused for a second, then said to myself, “Maybe I should change my girlfriend.”
I just did.

I went back to the couch, tightened my shoelaces, and picked up the ball again. This time, I moved faster. My right foot set behind my left, my body leaned forward, and the ball left my hand. At that moment, I threw everything about you into the lane with it. The ball rolled forward, collided, and another strike.

I know I shouldn’t treat a game like gambling, but in a transitional phase like this, who really cares? It’s like blackjack. You know you’re not going to win, but you still sit down, take the cards, throw in some chips, maybe order a martini, pretending everything is still under control until the dealer reveals the cards and the entire table loses.

The bowling ball only moves forward. It doesn’t hear me calling it back. Just like you. The moment you decided to cut your hair into an Audrey Hepburn style, you had already made up your mind. So why ask me?

A broken relationship is like the collision between a ball and pins. After impact, everything scatters in different directions. You go your way. I go mine. The pins can’t stop you, so the only thing left is to accelerate the ball—so everything ends sooner.

I’m tired of your excuses.

One throw went straight into the gutter. That’s fine. At least it washes away the colorful memories I had of you—and the boredom too. I watched the ball roll down the lane, then return through the machine. I even found myself hoping it had been cleaned before coming back, because I wanted every memory I threw out there to be wiped away as well.

More people started to fill the space, but your voice in my head only grew louder, as if it were pushing against my entire world.

The words I said are like every ball I threw and like every word you said to me. Once they enter the lane, there is no coming back.

You make me feel bored, so I came here to play bowling to reduce the boredom of you.

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By nature, I am not someone who enjoys being swayed by conglomerates, yet life seems inextricably tied to these “titans.” They say “the water that bears the boat is the same that swallows it”—and perhaps that is exactly why I find myself maneuvering through the ebbs and flows of Substack.

Since the beginning of February, I’ve felt the “rules of the game” shift. It started feeling as though my fellow writing classmates had become competitors. It is a difficult feeling to shake. The initial spark—that raw enthusiasm, the vision, the anticipation—slowly began to sour into a series of “musts.” I must write; I must maintain a presence; I must be productive; I must not disappoint my subscribers. The noise became deafening.

Weariness set in. Now, whenever I open my laptop and face a blank page, I no longer think, “I can’t wait to see what words will surprise me today.” Instead, the thought is: “It’s time to write again.”

Writing has always been a solitary act; it is my act. As for whom I am writing for—it may be too early to tell. Perhaps I am simply experiencing a drought of words, or a low tide in my creativity. Perhaps I am lost within my own prose (it happens). Perhaps...

Yet, while I could delete my Instagram, my Facebook, or my Threads without a second thought, I hesitated when it came to Substack.

In the quiet of the past few days, I kept asking myself: What is there to hesitate about? Why? Why? Why?

I eventually arrived at a theory: it is because I have left my “traces” here. In those countless nights, these are the words of my soul’s dialogue; words left for my past self, words marking my life’s journey, and words sent ahead to my future self. Within my own limitations, I saw my infinite self through these writings.

I remember those moments, sitting at my desk, telling myself: “Alix, today, write a piece that challenges you. Create something you’ve never been able to create before. Push your boundaries.”

I remember the thrill of capturing a feeling or a visual memory—of being jolted awake by inspiration in the middle of the night, dragging myself out of a warm bed in a deep sleep, putting on my glasses, and frantically typing. I wanted to share that excitement, to leave a mark. I even missed the apartment’s scheduled hot water supply just to get those ideas down (a massive sacrifice for me, as I am the type who cannot sleep without a shower).

So many beautiful things, memories, and the people I’ve encountered on this platform... they are so rare and precious.

I once wrote an article while sitting on my toilet. It was then I realized that while we can enjoy the rush of writing on Substack, our real lives happen behind the screen. It is the world that gives us inspiration: the places we go, the sounds we hear, the scents we catch; the feeling of insignificance while on a plane, or the exotic pull of a foreign land. When these experiences merge with our thoughts, a unique piece of writing is born.

It doesn’t have to be Substack; it could be any platform. But I have realized one thing: before anyone comes to Substack—regardless of the reason that prompted you to register or write your first “letter”—you are already a writer. We are far luckier than those who lived fifty years ago. I truly wonder how Agatha Christie would have described Substack...

The marketing strategies of the platform force us to pivot alongside them, which is exhausting. But what Substack cannot change is our inexhaustible capacity for creation. It cannot change the fact that it is a platform for writing. The power of creative language is greater than anything else.

I may continue to move in circles for a while, but I remember every one of you. Because your traces have already been deeply etched into Substack and into me.

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The weather was good—28 degrees, the kind of warmth that softens everything. I was walking toward the metro, making my way to the train station, when I crossed the wooden pedestrian bridge over the Seine. That was when it came—a quiet sense of unease, sudden and without warning.

I started going through possibilities in my head.
Did I leave something at the restaurant?
Did I forget to say something?

Then I stopped in the middle of the bridge.

“I know…”

That was the moment I understood. This is how a “feeling” arrives—suddenly, without asking. I stood there, surrounded by people passing by, but I was no longer in a hurry to catch my train.

Instead, I found a seat along the walkway and sat down.

“If it begins like this… does it also end like this?” I asked myself.

I took out my phone and searched for nearby restaurants and bars. If that was the case, then maybe I needed a drink—something strong enough to carry me through the moment, maybe even enough to decide whether I wanted to go home at all.

“Is she okay?”

A friend in Paris had asked me about you three hours earlier.

We were sitting outside at a fine dining restaurant when he said it. I smiled without thinking.
“I think she’s doing well—at least, between us.”

He clinked his glass against mine and said he was happy for me.

But behind my sunglasses, there was a quiet unease I couldn’t explain.

The next moment I was aware of, I was already sitting at an outdoor table at a bar. A bottle of white wine sat in front of me, along with a glass, half-filled—7cl.

My phone vibrated. I assumed it was SNCF—probably a delay or a cancellation. It’s always one of the two.

But it wasn’t.

One message read: “Bon courage pour ta première journée! 💪🏻”
The other simply said: “Hello.”

I didn’t reply. I set the phone down, picked up the glass, and finished it in one go.

Not only because the taste was fading, but because I needed something else to fade with it.

Some things had changed.
But life continued, as if nothing had.

When I became aware again, I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what time it was.

My thoughts drifted in all directions. I turned onto my side, as if observing myself from another angle. Then I heard something—my own voice, or something close to it.

“Have we arrived?”

A train passed behind me.

Or at least, I heard one.

But there was nothing. I wasn’t in LA. That sound belonged somewhere else, somewhere I wasn’t.

“Move to Seattle. You’re gonna be okay, Alix.”

8:10 AM.

I woke up. Or maybe I returned.

I think I had woken up earlier, but my mind never really stopped.

Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching quietly across the room. I watched it for a long time. I needed coffee.

Three hours later, I was finally holding a cup.

Then LA came back.

Not clearly—more like fragments, or flashes. The lights of a Burlesque club flickered through my mind. I was in a crowd, searching for you.

Six dancers on stage. Bodies pressed close together. Every soul in this sin city was only a few centimeters away from me, and yet, the more I searched, the more I lost you.

The outdoor dance floor was filled with smoke. Perfume lingered in the air, layered and indistinguishable. I could no longer recognize your scent.

Someone approached me. I smiled politely, shook my head, and turned away.

My awareness of you was fading.

I started to wonder—could I even find you?

The alcohol slowed everything down. The disco ball above spun endlessly, like a hypnotic light, disorienting, dissolving any sense of direction.

Who did I come here with?

I wasn’t sure anymore.

Did I come alone? Or…?

I was surrounded, held back by bodies, by movement, by something invisible.

You were somewhere here.
But I couldn’t find your signal.

Every silhouette looked like you.
But none of them were you.

I leaned against the bar and showed the bartender the wristband on my right hand.

“Vodka. Neat. No ice.”

If I couldn’t find you, then maybe I could erase this memory.

Or maybe…

if you came to find me—

it would be easier that way.

12:47 PM.

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The intensity of your headache is enough to tell how much you drank last night. It also reflects yesterday’s earnings—the cost of being a woman of the night.
I watch you pick up a painkiller. 1000mg—it must have been a rough night. Without eating anything, you swallow it. I start to worry about your stomach, but you’ve always been like this—doing things your own way. The cost will come back to you later.

Through the mirror, you look at yourself at the bedside. I have never been able to tell whether you are “admiring your beauty,” or if it is simply part of your professional habit.

I watch you and feel that you do not belong to the first twelve hours of the day. But you still cannot resist hunger and the rhythm of your body. You don’t want to say a word. Last night has already drained you—another round of the end-of-month competition.

I think the mask your work forces you to wear has slowly erased you within its boundaries. You begin to wonder which one is really you…

There are still two hours before you begin preparing to “put on the mask.” I carefully observe you beneath it—those rare 120 minutes.

You go out and buy the food you like. After eating, you light a cigarette. Then you return to your room. I sit quietly beside you, watching. You bring back an extra portion for me, hand it to me, and I say thank you.

You return to your dressing table. You have no expression, but I can feel the weight of everything you are not saying.

You watch the TV. I watch you.

After an unknown amount of time, your body clock reminds you: it’s time. You move almost unconsciously to the bathroom, washing up, rinsing off, then choosing what to wear tonight. (I know it’s not the “uniform” you wear for work.) You light another cigarette, like a ritual, giving yourself a few minutes to enter the state—to switch roles, switch mindset, and “put on the mask.”

From foundation, to eyeshadow, eyeliner, shaping your brows, drawing them again, choosing the color of your lipstick, to perfume.

You become someone else.
Someone beautiful, but not someone you love.

By 7:28 PM, you are waiting for a taxi, wearing your high heels. The streetlights have just turned on, as if clocking you in. You remain expressionless, unfathomable, difficult to resist. I know that if it were not for “responsibility,” you would want to escape this life.

Your next twelve hours begin.
The clock starts.

A nightclub like a circus. Your colleagues are also your enemies. The rules never change: whoever gets called the most, whoever sells the most alcohol, will be especially “loved” by the madam—because you are a cash tree.

You have always been one of her top girls. That makes you easy to envy.

At 9 PM sharp, the host welcomes in customers with pockets full of cash. Some are familiar. Some you don’t even want to look at. Some are just passing faces.

The madam calls you out from the girls’ room. Others pretend to touch up makeup that is already too thick, spray perfume they just bought—enough to finish in a single day—or sit there with unfinished dinners. They look at you with ill intent.

Because the competition has begun.

You move from one table to another, then another. Each table, at most 45 minutes. You have to please the customers, act sweet (so they give you tips privately instead of handing them to the madam), promote drinks, “sell smiles,” and endure wandering hands.

In the short moments between tables, you feel disgust toward yourself.

Whenever you can drink, you try to numb yourself with alcohol. Looking at those greedy faces—you don’t need to go to hell. You are already in it.

Other hostesses try to take your customers, saying you’re “on your period” and not suitable to sit. You are annoyed. But honestly, you don’t care about losing a table. You even want to give the chance to those who haven’t been chosen, so they can earn something—to pay rent, or to buy drugs after work.

But the madam sees and hears everything. She drags the girl who tried to take your customer into a room and deals with her with verbal violence.

You smoke, using that voice—the one you never use outside of here—to please the men who throw money at you.

“So I have a price.”

You think this.
Your sense of self is falling.

The madam signals you over.

You stand up and tell the table full of cash and testosterone, “I’ll be right back.”

You walk toward her. She tells you someone is offering a high price to take you out tonight. She tells you the amount, then asks, “Is your current table paying more than this?”

You shake your head.

“Then go with this client tonight. Make him happy. He’s spending so much money on you, buying you all these things. Do you understand?”

Her words cut through the air, thick with smoke and alcohol, and land in your ears.

“How long will this hell of selling my body last?”

You ask yourself.

And you nod.

The price is set. The client is chosen.

Tonight, you don’t need to try so hard anymore. You don’t have to rotate like a spinning coffee cup between tables. Someone has bought your time.

From this point on, your time belongs to him.

Leaving. Restaurant. Hotel. Sexual transaction. Payment. Shower. End.

Taxi. Home. Shower. Food. Sleep.
The alarm rings.

I am still here.

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Three in conversation
One in doubt

A chance encounter
The sound of four euros colliding
A verbal transaction

No record left

Three days later—fulfilled
Ninety-six hours later—offered

Five hours of trial
First barrier—passed

No contract
Only a nod

Ten hours later
The relay continues

Glasses collide
Alcohol keeps being poured
A rotation of erasure

Someone laughs
Someone calls out

I can’t remember who said what

The body tightens
keeps working

Two hours past noon
Intermission

Uncertainty
keeps rising

Like unwritten terms

One hundred eighty minutes later
Second half begins

A dim bar
A crowded weekend

Murmurs blur
Unreasonable guests

Broken sounds
Curses under breath

Two people
One objective

One works
One calculates

Cleared plates
Changed tablecloths
Dining room lights off

Tonight
ends

The bar fills with drinkers
Stories sealed under skin

In the dark
I drink a beer

Alcohol
is not enough to sell my soul

Numbers
are

One hour later
past midnight

Congratulations
You are now part of it

Hands meet
A nod

As if something settled

—Intermission—

Friday evening
18:30
France

Lights come on
Greetings
Politeness
Workplace rituals

Take your positions
Wear your masks

5.6% enters the bloodstream

Order dissolves

Crowds overflow
Laughter cuts through

Someone leans in
Says something

I nod

But I don’t hear it

Panic
Disarray
Powerlessness

Alone

Languages collide
Ink fails
Paper remains

Who wrote it
Unknown

Time passes

22:53
Curtain falls

500cl of alcohol
washes away
the noise of the city

Leaves
emptiness

A map inside me
missing a side

Promises on paper
flicker, unstable

The soul withers
three days, three nights

No direction
Words misplaced
Communication breaks

Come earlier tomorrow
Time and place
unclear

Decision made

I walk in again
Nothing familiar
Language distant

This is the end

Unpaid labor
No proof

Workplace violence
Awaiting judgment

Silent accounting
Unsettled

From here on
cut clean

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I ran as fast as I could,
but in the end, I couldn’t catch up.
You watched me calmly,
through the transparent glass.

It was already the end.

I stood at the far end of the platform,
blaming myself.

I became the male lead in a film—
carrying your backpack,
watching the train disappear from sight,
watching us disappear with it.

The sound of the timetable changing
was like shuffling cards.
A ruthless game—
on time, there is still a chance;
miss it, and that’s the ending.

Those few seconds—
there’s no buying them back.

My phone screen stayed the same.
Your name wasn’t there.

Your backpack
quietly stared at me.
Your soul
felt as if it was still attached to it.

My regret
could only be told to it.

My ticket
turned into an expired piece of paper.

“No refunds.”

Your backpack
judges me,
and everything between us.

Once—
it went with you to many places without me.

But—
it also brought you into my life.

Now—
it’s all I have left.

Your backpack
holds my personal belongings.

It and I
were both left behind by you at the station.

Lost and found—
how long is the claim period?

Your one-way ticket,
without hesitation.

I carried it
out of the station at dusk.

My shoulders heavy,
dragging an entire desolate evening beneath my feet.

Its address
has nothing to do with you anymore.

Two people walked into the station.
One person walked out.

From now on—

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But I remember
every song I loved

just like my life now

shampoo used as body wash
face wash used as toothpaste

But my sense of taste doesn’t lie
neither does my hearing

I remember what I remember

that street
the way home

how many shirts in my closet
the calendar in my phone

and you

I got glasses

things I couldn’t see
without alcohol

came slowly into focus
after the adjustment

turns out
there are stars in my night

I forgot
our outer space

I stand on a shore of fine sand
wind cutting across my face

turns out
there is still a “turns out”

I cut my hair

the line crossing my scar
became a mark

a reminder
that I survived

bones born from me
almost became the weapon against me

at a hundred kilometers an hour
time stretched into a straight line

blood
almost laid out
like a final red sheet

I didn’t even get to know myself

before I almost
left myself

72 hours in a coma

when I came back

I was no longer
who I was

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A maze-like city of streets
Streetlights flicker, half-awake

How does this game go on?

You want to catch me?
Try me if you can

—

A crowd of messy, chaotic people
Talking about mindless things
Even I’m getting stupid

—

The smoke in the air
Gives away my coordinates

Can you catch me?

I don’t appear in the daytime
Tradition has never suited my taste

Rebellious

Daylight thrills
Can never beat the night

This is another level

—

The city’s prelude unfolds
Trumpet sounds echo in the background

Every point
Is a clue to finding me

If you can

Boring Sunday to Monday

If you don’t play hide and seek

This is another level

—

Game start

Tell me what you want to do tonight

No rule is the rule

My heart is beating

You want to bounce with me?
Or go all in?

I am the blackjack
Full house

—

Two rounds of Russian roulette
No winning, no losing

Sixteen test-tube cocktails
That’s just a small case

Dare to go for seven tequila shots with me?

Have you found me yet?

You suck

I won’t bite
So close your eyes
Come and sit by my side

If you really know my secret—
(My love is top secret)

Back to the beat

—

Break time

Everyday, let’s get down

1, 2, 3 — run

Make this place a funky town

—

Are you having fun with me?

Yes, you are

Or you still haven’t found my location?

Better lose yourself
Then you’ll find me

—

Welcome
to another level
of my life

Welcome to Sin City

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Even my neighbor says I’ve changed.
I just smile and shake my head.

The sky is clear today.
Your voice comes back to my mind.

If I could,
I would give you a love
that is simple.

We would ride bicycles together,
racing to see who’s faster.

When we get tired,
we sit by the river.
You lean on my shoulder
and drift into silence.

We eat Häagen-Dazs ice cream together,
unable to decide
how many scoops
or which flavors.

We explore bookstores,
arguing playfully
about books we’ve read
and books we haven’t.

Then we end up buying too many
and bring them home.

We sit down to write on Substack together,
but instead
we keep talking about our writing.

I like listening to you talk
until you suddenly say,

“Are you even listening to me?”

When you disagree with me,
you keep calling me a liar.

I can only laugh helplessly.

So nothing gets written that night.
But somehow

two bottles of wine
are empty.

I stay with you
from sunrise
to sunset.

The morning air is cold,
yet because of you

warmth
floats in the air.

Holding your hand,
there’s a feeling I can’t quite explain.

I just want to keep holding it
and never let go.

Can love be simple—
without hurting?

Can love stay pure—
without sorrow?

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