Li Ze's memory is intact.
She remembers the sound of the centrifuge in the laboratory, the red circle drawn by her instructor on the whiteboard, and squatting under the sweet-scented osmanthus tree with her younger sister to bury cicada shells when she was twelve years old - she remembers every detail, as clear as a video.
But those memories have no temperature. It's like looking through a layer of frosted glass, you can see the outline clearly, but you can't feel the texture.
She called this state the condensed state. It was proactive at first - a self-help method she invented when she was going through a very difficult time in junior high school. Later it became her skin, and after wearing it for a long time, it became difficult to tell whether it was clothes or her body.
Until that car.
The car stopped a centimeter away from her without touching her. But she was sure that she had been hit, so sure that it was as natural as breathing.
The crack became visible from that moment on.
Intention: People live for the sake of living themselves.