OneSongOneStory-------《ExchangeRemainingLife》

Lisbon summers hardly ever rain. The four o'clock sun still hung like a glowing coin over the Tagus River. Yellow trams climbed the slopes of Alfama's old town, rails glinting harshly in the daylight as tourists with ice cream snapped photos before the faded blue-and-white tile walls. Elena lived in a tiny apartment below St. George's Castle. She told friends the rent was cheap. Only she knew the real reason: it was a twenty-one-minute walk to Martin's bookstore. One point seven kilometers. Not close, not far. Just far enough to avoid suspicion. She had never gone looking for him on purpose. At least, that was what she always told herself. She simply got used to buying breakfast at the bakery on the corner—the one that happened to lie on Martin's route when he took his daughter to school. She simply liked the evening breeze along the riverbank—and his bookstore was only two streets away. She simply passed the café now and then—and Martin happened to sit by the window every Wednesday afternoon, balancing the bookstore accounts. The world is vast. Lisbon is not small. Yet she had shrunk her life to a three-kilometer radius. Beyond those three kilometers lay museums, theaters, new restaurants, photography exhibitions friends invited her to, even a man named Lucas who once asked, after dinner, if she would like to spend the weekend in Madrid. She smiled and declined. That night Lucas asked, “Are you still waiting for someone?” Elena thought for a moment. “No.” She was not lying. She truly was not waiting. Waiting means believing something will happen. And she had long known nothing would ever happen between her and Martin. Two years earlier they had been together. Martin was not yet married, nor had he truly realized he would marry his current wife. Their relationship began in the most ordinary way. Elena, a freelance photographer, was shooting Lisbon’s old bookstores for a travel magazine. Martin stood before a precariously tall stack of used books, watching her raise the camera. “Are you photographing the books or me?” “The books.” “You’ve already taken three shots of me.” She lowered the camera. “Because you keep getting in the way.” Martin laughed. Later they had dinner together, walked along the river, hunted for bars still open at two in the morning. They never officially said “we’re dating.” Nor did they need to. Elena remembered the first night Martin slept in her apartment. Not because it was romantic. But because the next morning, while she was making coffee in the kitchen, he walked over barefoot and naturally hugged her from behind. In that moment she felt an absurd illusion. She thought she had finally arrived somewhere. Only later did she understand some people are merely passing through. Not arriving. Six months later Martin’s father fell gravely ill. He returned to Porto. Three months passed without his coming back. Their messages dwindled from a dozen a day to one a day, then to a single line every few days: “How have you been?” Elena never questioned him. Never argued. She was even unpleasantly considerate. She told him to take care of his family first. She was fine. Eventually Martin believed she really was fine. When they met again, he had already returned to a woman he had known since childhood. “She stayed with me through my father’s funeral.” Martin said. Elena nodded. “That’s good.” “Elena.” “Really, it’s good.” She even smiled. That smile was probably the most mature and most foolish performance of her life. A year later Martin married. She did not attend. Not out of hatred. Simply because she could not imagine what expression she would wear sitting among the guests. The year after the wedding he had a daughter. She had seen the photos. The little girl had large brown eyes and slightly curly hair. Very cute. Elena once stood a long time in a children’s clothing store, gazing at a yellow dress in the window. In the end she did not buy it. Because she suddenly realized she had no right to give a gift. That day she understood for the first time that the hardest thing in the world is not losing someone. It is still knowing every detail of his life. Knowing what time he goes to work. Knowing which kindergarten his daughter attends. Knowing his wife likes to place white flowers on the bookstore windowsill. Even knowing he recently got new glasses. You know everything. Yet none of it has anything to do with you anymore. Sometimes Elena found herself ridiculous. She was thirty-four. She had work, friends, her own apartment, and had visited more than twenty countries. She could photograph starscapes alone in the Moroccan desert or haul ten kilos of gear up Italy’s Dolomites. Yet on her life map there remained one place she could never leave. A three-kilometer radius. Like an invisible circle. With Martin standing at its center. That August Lisbon suffered a rare heatwave. Temperatures reached forty-three degrees. The city issued repeated heat warnings; tourist numbers halved. Elena received an assignment. A French magazine wanted her to photograph volcanoes in Iceland for three months. The editor asked, “Can you go?” She looked at the screen. Almost without thinking. “Yes.” After hanging up she sat in the apartment for a long time. Someone was playing guitar outside the window. The old lady next door was taking in her sun-dried sheets. Suddenly she stood, grabbed her keys, and went out. Twenty-one minutes later she stood outside Martin’s bookstore. Through the glass door she saw him wrapping a book for a customer. He looked a little thinner than two years ago. The ring on his left ring finger flashed in the sunlight. Elena did not go in. She simply stood across the street. A few minutes later Martin looked up. He saw her. He paused. Then smiled and came out. “Long time no see.” “Long time no see.” “How have you been?” The same line again. Two years ago they had become strangers with exactly these words. This time Elena truly smiled. “Very well. I’m going to Iceland next week.” “Travel?” “Work. About three months.” Martin nodded. “Sounds like something you would do.” “What?” “Keep running to faraway places.” Elena looked at him. She almost said, Not really. I haven’t been running far away. These two years I’ve been everywhere, yet after returning to Lisbon I’ve always lived twenty-one minutes from you. I know which streets will let me meet you. I know which cafés will let me see you. Even when I changed apartments, I never left this area. In the end she said nothing. Martin asked, “When will you be back?” “I don’t know.” “After three months?” Elena lowered her head and smiled. “I mean, I don’t know if I’ll still live here.” Martin fell silent. A tram rumbled past, its metal screech slicing the brief quiet. “Moving?” “Maybe.” “Why?” Elena looked up. For the first time she found the question faintly amusing. Why. So a person can truly have no idea how much effort another has spent simply to stay near him. She shook her head. “Nothing.” Martin watched her. “Elena.” “Hmm?” “Did you ever hate me?” She thought for a long time. “No.” “Really?” “Really.” She paused. “I just hoped, for a while, that you wouldn’t be quite so happy.” Martin froze. Elena smiled. “Pretty awful, right?” “A little.” “But it passed.” She looked into the bookstore. Behind the counter hung a child’s drawing: three matchstick figures—father, mother, child—and a very large sun. “Later I truly hoped you were well.” She said. Martin did not answer. Elena suddenly understood that some loves leave behind not possession, but an extremely awkward kindness. I cannot be part of your life. Yet I still hope nothing goes wrong in it. I do not need you to turn around. But if one day you fall, get hurt, or lose something, I will probably still feel sad. This is not deep affection. At least Elena refused to call it that. She felt it was more like a residue. Like the slightly lighter patch on the wall long after the furniture has been moved away. Proof that something once stood there. “I have to go.” She said. Martin nodded. “Safe travels.” Elena turned and walked a few steps. Martin suddenly called after her. “Elena.” She looked back. “What?” He seemed about to say something. In the end he only raised his hand. “Iceland is cold. Bring extra clothes.” She smiled. “Got it.” That was the last time they met. Three months later Elena did not return to Lisbon. She went to Paris, then Prague, and later took a long-term job in Copenhagen. A year later she gave up the Lisbon apartment. The landlord asked if she wanted the map on the wall. She stood in the empty living room, looking at the city map pricked with countless tiny holes. She had once marked the bakery, the café, the riverbank, the bookstore. All the marks together really did form an irregular circle. She smiled faintly. “No need.” The movers carried out the last box. Elena closed the door for the last time. Suddenly she remembered many years ago, Martin standing barefoot in that kitchen, hugging her from behind. Back then she thought loving someone meant wanting to be close to him. Later she learned it was not. The day you truly let someone go is not when you finally stop loving him. It is when you finally walk out of his radius. No longer detouring past. No longer pretending it is on the way. No longer treating “nearby” as a form of company. Many years later Elena still thought of Martin occasionally. Only then she could no longer say how many minutes it took from her home to his bookstore. Once a friend asked. “Where does that person live now?” Elena thought for a moment. Then shook her head. “I don’t know.” Only after she said it did she realize she felt no sadness at all. Outside the Copenhagen sky was already darkening at four in the winter afternoon. She lifted her coffee and watched the unfamiliar streetlights one by one come on in the distance. The world suddenly felt enormous. And she was finally no longer living inside anyone’s few miles. #ShortStory#OneSongOneStory#Love#Relationships

One Song, One Story------《WithinAFewMiles》

The last time I saw Zhou Yiheng was at 1:40 AM. The convenience store looked the same as always, the air conditioning blasting, the smell of oden mixed with coffee, the asphalt outside glistening after the rain. He sat by the window, wearing the gray shirt I knew so well. My first thought upon seeing him wasn’t anger. It was that he had lost weight. Pathetic, right? A man who left you half-dead, who hadn’t properly contacted you for three months, who finally asked you out just to break up—and the first thing you think when you sit down is whether he’s been eating properly. That’s when I realized some relationships are like drugs. It’s not that you don’t know they’re bad for you. It’s that you can’t quit. “What would you like to drink?” He asked. I glanced at the fridge. “I’m fine.” “You used to always get a latte.” “Not anymore.” He paused. It wasn’t that I didn’t drink lattes anymore. I just suddenly didn’t want one he bought. People are strange like that. When you love someone, even a twenty-five-dollar coffee feels like tenderness. Once you decide you don’t, even him pulling out a chair feels unnecessary. Zhou Yiheng kept his head down, hands clasped. I knew that gesture too well. He did it every time he didn’t know how to talk to me. The first time was four years ago. He told me he wasn’t ready for marriage. The second time was two years ago. He told me his ex-girlfriend had come back looking for him. The third time was last year. He told me he needed some space. This time, he was probably finally going to finish the sentence. I looked at him. “Go ahead.” He lifted his head. “Do you have to be so calm?” I almost laughed. What else was I supposed to do? Cry while hugging his legs in front of the store clerk? We’re not twenty anymore. The cruelest part about being an adult is knowing exactly when and where you’re allowed to fall apart. “You didn’t ask me here just to stare at me, did you?” He was silent for a while. “I feel like this isn’t fair to you.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Really. My laugh caught him off guard. “Zhou Yiheng, did all you guys take the same class?” “What?” “When you break up, you all say the same lines—sorry, you deserve better, I don’t want to hold you back.” He frowned. “That’s not what I meant.” “Then what did you mean?” He didn’t answer. I looked out the window. It had started raining again. Lightly. So fine you could barely see it—only thin silver threads under the streetlights. I had known for a long time. The saddest thing for a woman in love isn’t being lied to. It’s knowing the truth and still making excuses for him. He doesn’t reply because he’s busy with work. He doesn’t introduce me to his friends because he’s low-key. He doesn’t talk about the future because his last relationship hurt him. Time after time he put me last, and I kept telling myself he just needed more time. Later I realized “needs time” is probably the most effective anesthetic in love. It won’t kill you outright. It just lets you stay alive a few more years in a relationship that has no future. “She’s back, isn’t she?” I asked. His expression changed. Just for a second. But I saw it. Four years is long enough to know when a man is lying. “No.” “Zhou Yiheng.” “We’ve only been in touch.” I nodded. “Have you slept together?” He jerked his head up. “Do you have to say it like that?” I stared at him. “Strange—whose actions are more vulgar, yours or my question?” He stopped talking. I suddenly felt exhausted. Not the kind that makes you want to cry. It was as if a string inside me that had been stretched for years finally snapped. With a soft sound. And then everything went quiet. The old me would have kept asking. When it started. How many times they’d met. What she said. Whether he still loved her. What I even was to him. But that night, I didn’t want to ask a single question. Because I suddenly understood those answers couldn’t save me. Knowing where they kissed wouldn’t make it easier to leave. Knowing who he loved more wouldn’t give me back my four years. I stood up. He stood up too. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “We’re not finished.” I turned to look at him. “Finished with what?” “At least let me say what I came to say.” “Fine.” I sat back down. “Go ahead.” He looked at me for a long time. “I really did love you.” In that moment, my eyes almost filled with tears. Not from being moved. From anger. I hated that sentence the most. “Loved.” As if once someone has loved you, they’re absolved of everything that came after. Like leaving a bouquet beside a body after the murder. And saying, see, I’m not heartless. “You know what?” I looked at him. “I used to think that if I was good enough, you’d eventually choose me.” His eyes turned red. But I kept going. “So when you were busy, I didn’t bother you. When you were in a bad mood, I stayed with you. When you said you were scared of marriage, I told you it was okay, I could wait.” “I was even careful about getting angry.” “Because I was afraid that if I wasn’t perfect, you’d leave me.” He lowered his head. I suddenly felt like the old me was a stranger. How terrified that woman must have been of losing a man to shrink herself so small. I used to think love meant tolerance. Later I learned that without boundaries, tolerance easily becomes enabling. And understanding someone doesn’t mean you have to bear every consequence for them. “Yiheng.” I called his name. He looked up. “I’m not waiting anymore.” His lips moved. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” I picked up my bag. This time, he didn’t stop me. When I walked out of the convenience store, the rain had grown heavier. I didn’t have an umbrella. I stood under the awning and called a ride. Three minutes. I looked down and saw a message from Zhou Yiheng. “Text me when you get home.” I stared at those five words. The old me would have cried. Because that was the cruelest part about him. He was never completely a bad person. If he had been worse, I probably would have left long ago. But he would buy medicine when I was sick, remember I didn’t eat cilantro, ask if I had an umbrella when it rained, and go silent exactly when I needed answers the most. His tenderness was just enough. Enough to make me stay. But never enough to make me feel safe. The car arrived. I got into the back seat. The driver asked, “Miss, is the air conditioning too cold?” I shook my head. “No.” The phone lit up again. Zhou Yiheng was calling. I watched the name flash for a long time. I didn’t answer the first time. Nor the second. When it rang the third time, I turned the phone off. Then I cried. Ugly crying. Not the pretty tears you see in movies. I cried and wiped my nose, mascara smudged everywhere. The driver glanced at me twice in the rearview mirror before quietly passing the tissue box to the back seat. “Thank you.” I pulled one out. That night, I admitted something for the first time. I still loved him. I loved him very much. But loving someone and still wanting to be with them are two different things. I didn’t understand that before. I thought you could only leave once you stopped loving. So I kept waiting. Waiting to be disappointed. Waiting to give up. Waiting for the day I could see him and my heart wouldn’t hurt anymore. Later I realized it wasn’t necessary. You can love someone and still leave. You can miss someone and still delete their number. You can want to call them in the middle of the night and instead flip your phone over and force yourself to sleep. Quitting someone is never about suddenly stopping love. It’s about loving them a little less every day. The first day, don’t text. The second day, don’t check their social media. The seventh day, you still think of them when passing that restaurant. The twentieth day, when a friend mentions their name, you can keep eating. Two months later, while cleaning the closet, you find his shirt. You pick it up and smell it. His scent is already gone. And strangely, you almost want to laugh. Even scent is more honest than people. When it’s gone, it’s gone. Half a year later, I went back to that convenience store. Same spot. Same air conditioning. I bought a latte and sat by the window. A song I hadn’t heard in a long time was playing on my phone. The man sang about trying and failing to quit someone. I used to find it sad. That day, I suddenly understood something else. What’s truly hard to quit isn’t the lover. It’s the habit. The dependence. The belief, after every wound, that next time he’ll be different. The way you placed someone in your future for so long that when they leave, you can’t even see your own future anymore. I took a sip of coffee. It still tasted good. Outside, someone ran across the street with an umbrella. A couple was arguing. Someone scrolled on their phone. The city didn’t care who had just had their heart broken. The world kept turning. And suddenly, that felt like a good thing. No one’s departure actually stops life. Not Zhou Yiheng’s. Not the years I once thought I couldn’t live without him. The phone vibrated. An unknown number. I didn’t know if it was him. And I didn’t care to find out. I silenced my phone and kept drinking my coffee. I used to wait for someone to turn around. Later I realized what was truly worth waiting for was the version of me who finally turned around to look at herself. #OneSongOneStory#Love#Relationships

One Song One Story---《戒情人》

Sitting on the hospital bed in the dialysis room, with blood flowing through the tubes, I feel that time itself is Saturn, slowly yet steadily devouring the body and the future. In Goya's painting, that giant figure stares with wide eyes, hands embedded in flesh, swallowing its own child in self-preservation—its fear profound and frenzied. In this rhythm of devouring, I see my own situation: energy gradually draining, actions restricted, the future requiring remeasurement. This merciless process forces me to confront the essence... how to respond to this reality of being consumed. Frida Kahlo offers a way of gazing here. She endured the tearing of a car accident and illness throughout her life, yet transformed the fractures into self-portraits, gazing directly at the viewer without embellishment. What she painted was reality, not dreams: the broken body, recurring pain. She refused to be simply categorized, presenting her own existence solely through art. From this I understand that pain needs no beautification; it is itself the material, becoming evidence of facing and existing. I hope I too have the ability to transform pain into different energy, to view my own reality in the same way, but clearly taking up the brush to paint the inner sense of tearing is not something I am skilled at; I can only describe it with words, which seems too abstract. Just as before my illness began, I did not know what dialysis was, even though my profession had abundant academic knowledge, it was not as real as being a patient myself. Of course, no one wishes to be a patient, nor would anyone "expect" themselves to become one. Two years after the onset, I no longer resist the restrictions, but accept them as the current reality. Yet acceptance is not the end. After reading so many literary works, attempting to find the answers I seek, only after experiencing life and death can one understand the layers of Proust's In Search of Lost Time. He reveals that Saturn's devouring is not absolute. The years seemingly consumed by time are actually hidden in the folds of the senses and consciousness. A subtle trigger can summon the layered past, allowing them to reappear in the present. This is not nostalgia, but reconstruction. The days of dialysis thus gain density: I am no longer a singular, restricted existence, but the intersection of multiple lives, where memories continuously revive and extend. The three naturally blend here. Pain is merciless like Saturn; I choose, like Frida, to transform it through gazing into a presentation of reality; At the same time, like Proust, to recover the devoured parts in memory, allowing time to flow anew within consciousness. This forms a mature self-dialogue: not asking why it is so, but asking how this reshapes my existence. Dialysis narrows external possibilities, yet deepens the inner vision, allowing me to see the freedom within the boundaries... the clarity of consciousness, the richness of memory, the layers of understanding. Gratitude in many forms thus emerges. It is not an abstract emotion, but a shift in perspective. Viewing the same life from different angles: seeing patience within limits, recognizing value in loss, distilling meaning from being devoured. The body's boundaries become a frame, within which existence gains more precise weight. Time continues to devour, but I am no longer purely passive. Frida's gaze and Proust's summoning together allow me to distill a coherent self in the process. The dialysis tubes flow, and thoughts flow with them; every pain, every memory, every present moment is woven into this ongoing dialogue. This allows me, writing this article now, to experience an unprecedented reality: honest, coherent, with a quiet density. Life continues to pass, yet it is also constantly reorganizing within consciousness. I continue to observe, remember, and give thanks, using this as a foundation to extend forward. #Prose

Miscellaneous Notes: The Flow of Self-Consciousness

當你踏進一個展場時，除了專注在藝術品本身，是否也想拍張照去紀錄眼前的作品。 當然我也不例外，只是我可能沒有高的藝術造詣，很多時候實在理解不了藝術家本身想要表達的意義。 所以我從作品本身，開始轉移觀察所有在展間的人們。 不同的題材，吸引不同的人停留腳步。 有趣的是，當我發現我已經不在執著於想拍好作品的完整，也不在意來來往往的人們進到我的鏡頭裡時。 每一張照片突然間有了新的生命，也觀察到了作品跟觀賞者之間的互動。 其實想想，作品本身就是讓人來欣賞，讓人們體悟到作品本身背後的意義。 那人出現在鏡頭裡，用他們的方式去欣賞。 而我捕捉到最真實的一面，也是一種幸運。 但提醒大家，畢竟還是有侵害肖像權的問題。 所以正面拍到別人的清楚的面部到可以識別，是有刑責問題的喔！！ 另外有些展場是不准錄影拍照的，也要注意相關限制規定不要違規喔～

與藝術面對面—展場中的人們

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OneSongOneStory-------《ExchangeRemainingLife》

One Song, One Story------《WithinAFewMiles》

One Song One Story---《戒情人》

Miscellaneous Notes: The Flow of Self-Consciousness

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