People have to disperse.
She knows. The soul is like old cotton wool that has been exposed to the sun. When you twist it with your fingers, the crumbs fall off. The world was like frosted glass covered with dust, and there were numerous figures and humming sounds, all separated from her by a layer.
But someone refused to let her go.
She is a beautiful doctor who does not heal her illness, but only heals her "presence".
Her soul was about to float away, so he changed clothes in front of her
——With an almost arrogant freshness, it pinned her back to this moment.
She asked if there was any medicine for long sleep, and he answered like a piece of pig iron: "No."
She felt like a wrinkled rag, but he said: "Print out my photo and hang it around your neck."
His therapy is contrary to heaven's principles: he does not cure the disease, but only witnesses.
This is a physical fight about "being".
The place of struggle is in her eyes before she wakes up, on the edge of the cliff where memory collapses, and in every moment when she wants to gently erase herself.
He used "presence" to translate a simple truth for her:
Living without pain may not be possible.
But when you were in so much pain that you wanted to log yourself out, someone clutched the page of your household registration book tightly and insisted...
"This person is still here."
She has a disease called "disappearance".
What he prescribed was a dose called "No."
And love is the rusty nail that passes through all theories and diagnoses and finally rivets two broken souls together.
