This is a room where the walls are made of music
and the floor is covered in half-finished wishes.
A place where time moves in loops.
April to May to September to November,
each month a different shade of longing,
each season a new name
for the same ache.
Here, there is a girl who is still into you.
into the idea of a life that isn't this one,
into the dream of waking up somewhere else,
into the hope that one day
she'll be free
to be exactly who she wants to be.
She changes her name like she changes her mind.
searching for a version of herself
that fits,
that feels right,
that doesn't feel like a lie.
She is young and lost
and so full of wanting
it sometimes feels like it will
tear her apart.
She dreams in other languages.
Chinese, Japanese, Korean.
words that sound like escape,
phrases that taste like freedom.
She imagines herself as someone else:
a rich girl in Shanghai,
a dreamer in Seoul,
a ghost in a city she's never seen
but already belongs to
in her heart.
She is jealous of strangers
in faraway places,
of teenagers who get to grow up
without this weight,
without this country pressing down
on their chests like a stone.
She is tired of this place,
tired of waiting,
tired of being told
that her dreams are too big
for a life like hers.
But she doesn't stop hoping.
She holds onto music like a prayer,
onto songs that sound like
a promise of something better,
onto the voices of strangers
who remind her
that she is not alone.
She writes in fragments and confessions,
in the language of someone
who has learned to find beauty
in the cracks,
who has learned to survive
by dreaming of other worlds.
The aesthetic here is soft and aching.
like a lullaby sung in the dark,
like the feeling of being homesick
for a place you've never been,
like the taste of a dream
you're afraid to wake up from.