The spotlight of Paris Fashion Week burned through the seal of memory, and the butterfly brooch with fluttering wings turned out to be Song Youheng's love letter tempered by seven years of secret love and pathological paranoia. Back then, the genius of the design department hid three hundred silver threads behind the scenes of the graduation show, just to crucify Ruan Qingbai on the cross called the muse; now he cuts open the bloody silk exposed by the supermodel's dress with his own hands, just like cutting open his own chest covered with blue butterfly tattoos.
In this hunt in the name of art, he is the tailor who holds the key to the mental hospital, sewing unsent love letters into every tear in the fabric; she is the innocent model dancing on phosphorus fire, using her collarbone to hold his melted enamel heart. From the rock music after the rain that we listened to on the rooftop of the Academy of Fine Arts, to the broken aesthetics of embracing each other in the flames on the catwalk, all encounters are precisely calculated - he remembers every starlight carried by her eyelashes, and she recognizes all the lies in his pulse.
When the burning show reflected the projection of the bars of the mental hospital, the anonymous love letters that had sunk into the Trevi Fountain surfaced: the silver nitrate writing on the yellowed pages was being deciphered by the flames, proving that some love is destined to be revealed in blood. In this dangerous relationship that lasted seven years, tailor's scissors and embroidery needles wrote poems in each other's flesh and blood, eventually stitching the heartbeats into synchronized prisoner rhythms.
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