当时只觉得北京抽象，像一团磁铁，就觉得她好，也说不出为什么。每天就想骑着单车蹬来蹬去，想把每寸北京城都蹬在脚下。想蹬上中南海去，想蹬进天安门里，想着等我把紫禁城三宫六院都蹬他个遍，就该明白北京是什么了。我每天早上晚上都蹬呀蹬，蹬了东直门蹬朝阳门，蹬完朝阳门蹬金宝街。蹬得我在三十好几度的天里气喘吁吁，蹬得大腿都粗了一圈。我汗流浃背地蹬，没日没夜地蹬，蹬得我感觉我要被北京吃掉了一样：要么蹬要么死！蹬来蹬去蹬了一整个夏天，我对蹬什么就越来越有讲究。我只蹬青桔。抛去它长得好看，最主要是因为它蹬起来省劲儿，能让我把那被北京夏天烤得咕噜咕噜的血液，从心脏和俩大腿间抽出来，都抽进脑子里来供我神游。

我与神游的情感中断于上个单身结束时的瞬间，之后的每天里，脑子都充斥着激烈异常的喜怒哀乐，生活全忙着演绎各类大喜大悲。神游？哪儿有神游的地盘！

说到底我真想死了神游。那被世界短暂遗忘的感觉真是太妙了。我从没有在其他任何地方感受到过这种宁静与自由。我坐在北新桥一家小麻辣烫里安静地吃着，瞅见街道水泥的颜色从亮到暗，再到被照得反光。我瞅见金灿灿的日落从普照大地到慢慢下沉，我瞅觉得今天的日落只属于北京而不属于我。于是我把耳机一带，那第四面墙就来了，那久违的间离感也瞬间来了。我看到了因为我在店坐太久那老板鄙夷的神情，我明白了，就是今晚了。

我阔步走出了烫菜店，觉得自己是整个北新桥最牛逼的天选之人。我间离着所有被街灯照着的行人，仿佛自己飘在一个隐形的气球里，静静观察着不同的世界。我选了首歌，让我得以淹没在这自由的情感里：为我解读的世界悲愤而悲愤，为我观察的生命开心而开心。在其间我看到了形形色色大大小小的世界。我露出了微笑：我好像又是个浪漫而敏感的人了。

走着走着我看到一辆青桔。这次不像上个夏天那样，是我使用它，这次换他在召唤我了。我根本无法控制地跨上它，根本无法控制地沿着东直门外大街骑着，根本无法控制地，它将我带到了春秀路，带到了那熟悉的大楼下面。我一个人站在熟悉的广场上，喘不过气。我想上楼看看，可我清楚那楼上已经没有我想看的人了。我在广场上进退不决，四顾了一阵，然后给那扇窗户拍了张照片。我低头发微信跟他讲说miss u。过了一会儿，他回说，卧槽，我刚从那走。

我又冲回去扫开了码，掉头往回骑。这回的路线是上个夏天每个早上都走的路。我使劲地蹬，站在车蹬上面蹬，仿佛一走这条路我就要把整个北京城都蹬在脚下一样。我好想念他做青旅房东的日子。他是那夏天里我在这大城里唯一一个家。伴着他的调侃和问早每天出门，下班后不要脸地嫖他做的大餐，或是赖一瓶1664或一顿洗衣钱。我蹬呀蹬，使劲地蹬，仿佛只有把车蹬都蹬进地里去我才能扼住那涌上喉咙的思绪。我顺着东四十条边蹬边瞧，路过了好多好多熟悉的地方。他们怎么都和上个夏天一模一样啊。我放肆地蹬，左右乱晃地蹬，在路过交警站岗的红绿灯站起来摇来摇去地蹬。我要蹬进我的心里去！我想着，这好像就是上个夏天啊！我一个人探险，在北京的夏夜里蹬来蹬去，看着没见过的的物件、地方、人儿、事儿，反正哪哪儿都觉着新奇。当时其实每每干什么事儿都心里没底，但每次都打着”无知者无畏“和“此时不勇何时勇“的心理，硬是要在北京蹬出一个世界。这个夜晚蹬的时候我一直边蹬边笑，想起以前的笨拙就觉得好笑，可爱得好笑。想起当时笨拙地闯进职场，笨拙地在adobe和office上琢磨大半天，笨拙又不知天高地厚地接老板的话，笨拙地反驳前辈的意见，笨拙地非要和大家拼酒吃饭。又想起笨拙地约陌生摄影师拍照，笨拙地在公司楼下傻等喜欢的人，笨拙地跟别人屁股后面去好多没听过的地方。哈哈，还笨拙地给来北京找我混的朋友们装老北京呢！

啊，笨拙得可贵，可贵的笨拙！

哎，不知道下次笨拙是什么时候啊？那晚骑车当我满脑子神游回想笨拙的时候，不小心走神和一个电瓶车老大爷撞上了。想起上个夏天开始闯荡北京的第一天，朋友开车撞倒了一辆摩托车，我走下车听到满耳朵的京片子味儿和满街的起哄，整个人不知所措极了，呆在原地不知道说什么，也不知该扶一扶还是该怎样化事儿。但走神那晚我没有不知所措了，我回头抱歉地对老大爷笑了笑，怕他怨我，便赶忙问他“您怎么样啊摔着没有，您没事儿吧？”电瓶车老大爷一开始很生气，见我笑，他也善良地笑了，盯着我看了好一会儿。我也不清楚他看到了什么。然后他说，“没事儿，走吧。”

封面RGB: 156/0/0

标题灵感：SFG 神游

Night Wandering, Mind Wandering / Roaming / Not Probing Too Deeply

It’s been a long time since I last rode a bike.

Before tonight, my feelings about biking were still archived in the rush hours of last summer, when I hopped on a Qingju bike with blazing energy. Back then, even though I’d been biking to my internship in Beijing for almost two months, I still didn’t know what Beijing was.

At the time, Beijing felt abstract—like a lump of magnetism. I just liked it, without knowing why. Every day I wanted to ride my bike all over, as if I could pedal every inch of this city under my feet. I wanted to ride up to Zhongnanhai, pedal right into Tiananmen, imagining that if I could bike through all the palace halls of the Forbidden City, I’d finally understand what Beijing really was. Morning and night, I biked and biked—through Dongzhimen, through Chaoyangmen, from Chaoyangmen to Jinbao Street. I biked until I was breathless in the thirty-something-degree heat, until my thighs had grown visibly thicker. I biked drenched in sweat, day and night, until it felt like Beijing was about to eat me alive: pedal or perish! After an entire summer of this, I became particular about what I rode—I only chose Qingju. Not just for its looks, but mainly because it was easy to ride. It let me draw the hot, bubbling blood of a Beijing summer from my heart and thighs and channel it into my head—fuel for my mind-wandering.

That sensation of mind-wandering ended the moment my last relationship did. After that, my mind was crammed with wildly intense waves of joy and sorrow, rage and grief. Life was too busy performing a constant drama of emotional extremes. Mind-wandering? There was no room for it.

But the truth is, I miss mind-wandering dearly. That feeling of being briefly forgotten by the world—it’s unspeakably beautiful. I’ve never felt such serenity and freedom anywhere else. Sitting quietly in a little spicy hotpot shop in Beixinqiao, I watched the pavement shift from bright to dim, then shimmer in the streetlights. I watched the golden sunset sink slowly, no longer bathing the earth. I felt that tonight’s sunset belonged to Beijing, not to me. So I put on my headphones, and the fourth wall descended—that long-lost feeling of estrangement arrived instantly. I saw the shop owner’s scorn as I lingered too long at my table. And I knew—it was tonight.

I strode out of the hotpot shop feeling like the most badass chosen one in all of Beixinqiao. Estranged from every passerby under the streetlights, it was as if I floated in an invisible balloon, quietly observing different worlds. I picked a song that let me dissolve into this feeling of freedom: it grieved for the injustices I perceived, and rejoiced for the lives I glimpsed. In between, I saw worlds of all shapes and sizes. I smiled: Looks like I’m a romantic and sensitive soul again.

And then I saw a Qingju bike. This time, it wasn’t like last summer when I used it—this time, it was calling me. I couldn’t stop myself from hopping on, couldn’t stop pedaling down Dongzhimen Outer Street, couldn’t stop as it carried me to Chunxiu Road, to the base of that familiar building. I stood alone in the familiar plaza, unable to breathe. I wanted to go upstairs, but I knew there was no one up there I wanted to see anymore. I lingered, torn, then looked around and snapped a photo of that window. I looked down and messaged him: miss u. A moment later, he replied: holy shit, I just left from there.

I rushed back, scanned a bike again, and turned around. This time I was riding the same route I’d taken every morning last summer. I pedaled hard, standing on the pedals as if biking this path again would put all of Beijing back under my feet. I missed his hostel-owner days—he was the only sense of “home” I had that summer in this vast city. Each morning I’d head out with his jokes and greetings, then shamelessly come home after work for his homemade feasts—or just to bum a 1664 or a load of laundry.

I pedaled and pedaled, as if only by grinding the pedals into the earth could I choke down the emotions rising in my throat. Down Dongsi Shitiao I rode, glancing around as I passed so many familiar spots. How is it they all look just like last summer? I pedaled recklessly, wobbling left and right, standing up at red lights to sway on the bike in front of traffic cops. I want to ride into my own heart! I thought. Isn’t this just like last summer? Off on my own little adventure, biking through the summer nights of Beijing, seeing unfamiliar objects, places, people, events—everything felt novel. Back then, I never felt truly prepared for anything, but I always carried the mindset of “ignorance is bravery” and “if not now, when?”—determined to bike a whole new world into existence in Beijing. This evening, I kept pedaling and laughing, thinking of how clumsy I was back then—how ridiculously lovable.

I remembered stumbling into the workplace, fumbling through Adobe and Office all day, cluelessly trying to keep up with my boss’s banter, boldly contradicting my seniors, insisting on drinking and dining with everyone. I remembered awkwardly asking photographers to shoot with me, waiting like a fool outside the office for someone I liked, trailing behind others to places I’d never heard of. Haha—I even awkwardly pretended to be a seasoned Beijinger for my out-of-town friends.

Ah, clumsiness is precious. Precious, precious clumsiness!

But… I don’t know when I’ll next get to be clumsy. That night, as I was biking and lost in thoughts of past clumsiness, I zoned out and collided with an old man on an e-bike. It reminded me of my first day in Beijing last summer—my friend hit a motorbike while driving, and I got out of the car to a flurry of Beijing-accented shouting and jeering. I froze, completely at a loss, unsure what to say or do, whether to help or smooth things over.

But that night—I didn’t freeze. I turned back and smiled apologetically at the old man, worried he’d blame me, quickly asking, “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” At first, he was angry. But when he saw me smile, he softened too, staring at me for a long moment. I don’t know what he saw. Then he said, “It’s okay. Go on.”

Cover RGB: 156/0/0
Title inspiration: SFG 神游

Hanzi Meng 5/3/25 Hanzi Meng 5/3/25

Groove

Journal Entry: Week 7

Continuing from last week’s reflections, I find myself drawn deeper into the relational nature of space production—not as a static medium, nor as a mere container of events, but as something dynamic, rhythmic, and alive. This week, as I think about groove in relation to Lefebvre’s theory of space, I begin to see groove as the connective tissue between presence and movement, between individual agency and collective flow. If space is not a thing but a process, then groove is its tone, its way of holding and releasing, its way of catching and letting go.

Lefebvre reminds us that space is produced through lived practices, through social relations that are in constant negotiation. But what of groove? If rhythm marks the beats of space—structured, expected—then groove is what allows those beats to breathe. Groove is relational; it is the slight delay before the downbeat, the tension between sync and release, the elasticity of time and movement that allows for adaptation, play, and co-creation. It is a practice of spacing—creating room, making space within space, filling the gaps but never in a way that hardens them into structure.

Groove, then, is the soft infrastructure of spatial production. If we are to understand space not as a rigid framework but as an ongoing process of negotiation, groove is what makes this negotiation feel embodied, felt, lived. The groove of a street corner, of a market square, of a protest—each has a different tempo, a different weight, a different capacity for improvisation. Some spaces groove easily, allowing bodies to move freely, adjusting to one another with an almost intuitive responsiveness. Others resist groove, locking movement into linear paths, stifling the potential for elasticity, for play.

I return again to the concept of groundedness, but this time, I wonder: does groove need grounding, or is it itself a form of grounding? To be in the groove is to be attuned—to the space, to others, to the pulse of what is happening around you. It is not about losing oneself in movement but about being deeply present in the act of moving, of adjusting, of listening. Groove catches you—not to hold you still, but to keep you moving in rhythm with something larger than yourself.

If space is produced, can groove be produced too? Or is groove something that emerges, only possible in spaces that tolerate mistakes, that allow for rhythmic flexibility, that resist the tyranny of efficiency? A seamless, optimized process might feel smooth, but smoothness is not groove. Groove has texture; it holds weight. It creates pockets—pauses, hesitations, anticipations—that allow for depth, for negotiation, for feeling.

This makes me wonder: what happens when a city loses its groove? What happens when the improvisational potential of space is removed, when everything is planned to the millisecond, optimized for flow but emptied of feel? Groove, after all, is not simply about movement—it is about the potential for deviation, for play, for a collective way of holding space that acknowledges and adjusts in real-time.

Maybe groove is not something we create, but something we allow to happen. And maybe the real question is: how do we design for groove? How do we build, plan, or imagine spaces that hold room for the unexpected, that don’t just move people through them, but move with them?

Hanzi Meng 5/3/25 Hanzi Meng 5/3/25

Production of Space

Journal Entry: Week 6

Continuing from last week's reflections on relationality, I've been thinking about how this practice extends into the production of space, which is also the focus of our reading in Urban Theory Lab this week: Henri Lefebvre’s The Production of Space.

Lefebvre makes a compelling case that the kind of theory we need today must be unitary, embodied, triadic—a theory that fully grasps what it means to hold one’s ground, to be present in the continuous process of spatial production. He introduces the Time–Space–Energy framework, challenging the idea of space as a static thing or neutral medium. Instead, space is something dynamic—much like fluid dynamics.

We are not just talking about locations; we’re talking about energy flows: the movements, rhythms, pulses, and waves that live vividly inside a space. Space exists, produces, and represents all at once, through every interaction that takes place within it.

As I write, I keep circling back to the idea of groundedness—a concept that arises both in the Presence–Connect–Play framework and in Indigenous ways of being. Groundedness is not merely a physical connection to land; it is about attunement to where you are right now. It is about anchoring yourself in the timely, in the present, in your being.

One might ask: How do we find liberation if we tether ourselves to the ground? Isn’t grounding a form of limitation?
But I would argue the opposite: true connection requires presence—in all its honesty, its innocence, its cruelty.
To be grounded is to be open. To be visible. To be here and there, without pretension or judgment.
In connection, we do not perform. We do not analyze. We listen radically. We acknowledge mutually.

This mutual acknowledgment becomes our foundation—our ground. And it is from here, and only from here, that real play emerges.

If connection allows a socially constructed space to form, then play is how energy flows through it.
Play is hydrodynamic. It moves in waves: sometimes predictable, sometimes surprising, always shaped by its context.
A collective liberation is never careless—it is not play without awareness.
On the contrary, it is play that responds deeply to the world around it. Play is dialogical. It listens, adjusts, improvises.

How can we even play without something or someone to play with or off of?
Play must be relational: between you and an object, you and a person, you and the ground, you and the music.
Even when we “play alone,” if we zoom in closely—what’s really happening? Are you playing with your thoughts? Your emotions?
Does one part of your body play with another?

Even in solitude, play is a negotiation—a movement between parts of self, between context and consciousness.
Always relational. Always dynamic. Always grounded.

Hanzi Meng 5/3/25 Hanzi Meng 5/3/25

Relationality

Journal Entry: Week 5

This week, after reading Shawn Wilson’s Research Is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods, I found myself deeply stirred by the question: What does an Indigenous mode of research mean when studying community resilience? Wilson writes that, throughout his work with Indigenous communities, many have emphasized that a “relational way of being” lies at the heart of Indigenous identity. For Indigenous peoples, identity is not a singular, internal construct—it is grounded in relationships: with the land, with ancestors who have returned to the land, and with future generations who will also come into being through it.

Rather than seeing ourselves as individuals in relationship with others or the environment, Wilson writes that we are the relationships we hold and participate in.

As someone shaped by urban living and the rational structures of the Western sociological tradition, I paused. How do we—modern researchers, trained to distill, observe, and categorize—come close to grasping this kind of relational ontology?

But then, I thought—no, I do know what this means. I’ve lived it before.

Much like the framework I reflected on in last week’s entry—Presence–Connect–Play—I’ve come to know relationality intimately through community dance practice. The dance floor has long been my site for understanding complex intersections: of trust, care, interdependence, and timing. When we move together, we build relationships through our bodies, through space, and through rhythm. The connections are not theoretical—they are lived, felt, and constantly evolving.

Wilson’s visualization stayed with me:

"Imagine that you are a single point of light. Not like a light bulb, or even a star, but an infinitely small, intense point of light in an area of otherwise total darkness or void. Now in the darkness of this void, another point of light becomes visible... You form a relationship with that other point of light, and it is as though an infinitely thin thread now runs between you and the other..."

As more lights emerge and relationships form, a web begins to take shape—not just around you, but as you. Slowly, these threads become your physical body. Other lights form their webs, and those too take shape, until the world itself becomes visible—not as isolated objects, but as dense knots of connection, history, and context.

This metaphor rearranged something in me. It reminds me that everything I see and touch—every place I research or hope to understand—is already a thick knot of relationships: from the past, present, and future. And I, too, am one of those knots.

Wilson concludes:

"Our reality, our ontology, is the relationships. This is our epistemology. Thinking of the world as a web of connections and relationships. Nothing could be without being in relationship, without its context."

In that light, to study community resilience is not to measure outputs or isolate variables. It is to witness a living web—one built across time, space, and being. To research is to relate, and to relate is to become.

Hanzi Meng 5/3/25 Hanzi Meng 5/3/25

Presence - Connect - Play

Journal Entry: Week 4

“Presence–Connect–Play” is a simple three-part framework often used in Authentic Relating communities to describe a progression of how people can deepen their connection and creativity with each other.

“Presence” begins by landing in the here-and-now, not merely planting our feet but also receiving feedback from the ground—like dancers who feel the earth’s support and allow their own inner pulse to generate movement and connection. In "Connect", we recognize there is someone else in the relational field, with an experience every bit as layered and vibrant as our own. As we acknowledge and invite their perspectives, we weave our unique realities together, co-creating a dynamic exchange that unifies physical sensations, emotions, and thoughts into a cohesive flow. Finally, "Play" emerges when these foundations of presence and connection open a gateway to spontaneous, creative exploration—an embodied, yet cognitive invitation to discover new relational possibilities.

As we connect this framework to “Land as Liberation,” we move toward a wholeness connection to the ground and the other beings on this ground, defragmenting the many parts of ourselves into a single, integrated expression of consciousness—and in doing so, we expand not only our personal awareness, but also the shared space in which authentic connection thrives.

Hanzi Meng 3/3/23 Hanzi Meng 3/3/23

银河公园

我和黑子成大字型躺在坡上。他盯着头顶树枝的轮廓，问道，抽烟吗。我点头。于是他转身去包里拿烟，抽出后侧身用手肘撑着点火，眯眼吸了两口后向后一靠，慢慢地递给我。
“像是抽事后烟。”

九月江边的风开始变凉，我不喜欢我们之间的距离。于是我抽了两口将烟拿起，向他的方向移了移，黑子凑过来张嘴叼住，顺势将手绕过我的头顶，落在我的左肩上。“有天为被地为床的感觉。”我说着，将左手移到头顶，悄悄放到了他的手边。黑子没吭声，只是轻轻将我的手拉着。我们盯着天上的星星发呆，公园很安静。我想说话，可不知道说什么。

“机票买了吗。”
“后天飞，当然买了。”
“我说下个月回来的机票。”
我拿肩膀轻轻怼了他一下，“你又这样。”
他轻轻摸着我的手，又开始看天上的星星。
“下个月什么时候回来。”
”下年。”
”下月。”
”你给我买机票我便回来。”
黑子指了指脑袋说，”用点脑子，想想办法遣返什么的。”

我向头顶他的胳膊打去。黑子不计较，他就要看我佯装生气。我敲他的手，任由两根指头躺他手心。

他紧紧捏了一下我的手。
我也捏了下表示回应。

黑子说着一些鸡毛蒜皮，但我似乎只能听到头顶树叶的沙沙声。我没打断他，听黑子讲话的时间不多了。我想问他很多事。比如为什么封控三个月结束后第一个来找我，为什么翻墙后只给我打电话，为什么那些次酒后抱我那样紧，为什么隔着所有人只信任对我撒娇。可是为什么，为什么上次交合后便不敢迈步。他的喜欢只是在我坦白后避免尴尬吗，他到底有没有在我喜欢他的时候喜欢我。

江边没有了前两天台风时那股子往上返的腥臭。”好闻。” 我转头埋在草里，换了个姿势，掩盖心中翻腾的情绪。

黑子说等会，好像有保安。

我面对着草地，草新修剪完，面上还浮着些残留的草茬。扎脸，我说想转身。可他说保安还在栏杆上趴着。我只好以身体朝黑子头朝保安的别扭姿势保持原状。脸下的草茬扎得我麻麻的，我催他问，转过去了没有。他说没有，好像没动，再撑一会儿。

我说，“应该把后脑勺露过去。头发是黑的。”

“再坚持一小会儿。”
“不太舒服。”
“现在可以，转过来吧。”

我花了十秒时间将脸转向正冲草茬的方向，然后再从上方扫过滑进黑子的臂弯里。他笑了，说看来没看到。

也许是冷了，也许心有余悸，也许觉得抱的紧些可以躲避保安的视线。他摸着我的头发，摩擦着，在想什么。留恋了一会，见保安走远，黑子想好了似的，坐起来看我。以为他起身撒尿，我便抬头看他。看到他转身遮住了头顶树叶的轮廓，顿了一秒后，翻下身来。
熟悉的触感再次融化我的身体，我脑子一沉，沉得像要陷进身下的草地。

情绪牵着欲望，践踏着过往。过时的埋怨与即将物是人非的不舍在粗重的呼吸声中宣泄而出，合着思念，在空旷山坡上安静又激烈地交替质问。情欲在树叶哗哗的夜空中回荡。黑子沿着我的耳根和脖子低声喘气，过了一会，他温柔地啄着我的脖颈。我喘着气，摩擦着他肌肉的轮廓。他的身体，我无数次穿过酒桌想要拥抱的身体。
“别，姨妈。”

保安还在远方转着。而这个四下漆黑，连翻身都沙沙作响的夜晚用她最响亮的方式，挥舞着霎时的迷人，让人不自觉要靠近尽头的真实。再近些是不是能永生？那片草地的声响总是坚毅地挡在我与尽头之间，之后每每离尽头的真实更近时她便轻轻卷起头顶的那片树叶。草地还会扎吗，保安还转吗？尽头还会在吗？那晚踌躇的每一秒我也听到了她温柔的警告，可怀着对转瞬即逝的追赶，我还是凑上了前。

那警告不刺耳，只是回声很大。年少的我不知道靠近尽头是危险的想法，不知道窥探尽头后眼里的枷锁和噬人的虚空。只想着那夜长久。

那夜确实长久。只是没想那夜之后，树上没树叶，草地只扎人。

Heizi and I lay sprawled on the slope, arms and legs stretched out like the careless shapes of stars. The grass was cool beneath us, damp from the evening dew, prickling faintly against the skin. He stared at the silhouette of the branches above, jagged outlines etched into the sky. “Want a smoke?” he asked.

I nodded.

He turned and reached into his bag, pulled one out, propped himself up on his elbow to light it. He squinted, took two slow drags, then leaned back and passed it to me.
“Feels like a post-something cigarette.”

The breeze by the river was turning cold in September. I didn’t like the space between us. I took two puffs, then raised the cigarette and shifted slightly in his direction.

Heizi leaned over, took it into his mouth, and, in one motion, let his arm fall behind my head, resting it on my left shoulder.

“Sky as blanket, earth as bed,” I said, and moved my left hand above my head, gently placing it beside his.
Heizi didn’t say anything—just quietly took hold of my hand.

We stared at the stars in silence. The park was still. I wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say.

“Did you buy the plane ticket?”
“Flying the day after tomorrow. Of course I did.”
“I meant the return ticket. For next month.”
I bumped him lightly with my shoulder. “You’re doing this again.”
He lightly brushed my hand, still looking at the sky.
“When next month?”
“Next year.”
“Next month.”
“If you buy me the ticket, I’ll come back.”
Heizi pointed to his head. “Use your brain. Think of some way—like getting deported.”

I smacked his arm above my head. He didn’t mind—he liked seeing me pretend to be annoyed. I tapped his hand and left two fingers resting in his palm.

He gave my hand a firm squeeze.
I squeezed back.

Heizi kept talking, about nothing in particular. But all I could hear was the rustling of the leaves above us. I didn’t interrupt—there wouldn’t be many more chances to hear him talk.

I wanted to ask him so many things.
Like why, after the three-month lockdown, I was the first person he came to see.
Why, after climbing the firewall, I was the only one he called.
Why, those drunken nights, he held me so tight.
Why, out of everyone, I was the one he chose to be vulnerable with.
And yet—why, after we slept together, he never dared to take a step forward.
Was his tenderness just a way to avoid awkwardness after I confessed?
Did he ever, even for a moment, like me when I liked him?

The river no longer reeked of that briny stench it had during the typhoon days.
“Smells good,” I said, turning my face into the grass, shifting my body slightly, hiding the storm that was rising inside.

“Hold on,” Heizi said. “There might be a security guard.”

I faced the ground. The grass had just been trimmed—bits of it still floating above the soil.
“It’s prickly,” I said. “I want to turn over.”
“He’s still leaning on the railing,” he whispered.
So I stayed in a twisted position—body turned toward Heizi, face turned away toward the patrol. The grass pressed against my cheek, sharp and itchy.
“Has he left yet?”
“Nope. Doesn’t look like it. Just hang on a bit longer.”
“I’m not comfortable.”
“Now. You can turn.”

I took ten seconds to shift—first facing the grass, then slowly sliding into the crook of Heizi’s arm.
He smiled. “Looks like he didn’t notice.”

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe leftover tension. Maybe we thought holding tighter would help us hide.
He stroked my hair gently, rubbing it between his fingers. He was thinking about something.
After a moment, as the guard walked off into the distance, Heizi seemed to come to a decision. He sat up and looked at me.
I thought he was about to pee, so I lifted my head to look at him.
He blocked the outline of the branches above, paused for a second, then dropped his body down.

That familiar touch melted into mine. My mind went heavy, sinking like it could fall straight into the grass beneath me.

Emotion pulled desire behind it, trampling over all that had been. Outdated resentment, the ache of inevitable distance, spilled out in staggered breath. It tangled with longing—quiet and fierce—pushing and pulling across the empty slope, asking the same questions again and again.
The rustling leaves echoed above us. Heizi panted low along the edge of my ear and neck, then began to kiss me there, gently.
I gasped, my hands tracing the muscles I had longed, across many nights and tables, to touch.
“Stop… I’m on my period.”

The guard was still circling somewhere far off. And that night—dark, rustling, loud even in stillness—sang out its brightest song, tempting us to reach closer to something real.
Was there eternity in that closeness?
That patch of grass kept sounding beneath us, a firm wall between me and the edge.
Each time I moved nearer to the real thing, it would quietly lift the leaves above as a warning.

Would the grass still sting?
Was the guard still watching?
Would the edge still be there?

That night, every moment of hesitation came with a soft warning. But in chasing the fleeting, I leaned closer anyway.

The warning wasn’t sharp—just loud in its echo.
I didn’t yet know that getting close to the edge was dangerous.
Didn’t know that after looking over, the eyes carry shackles. And a biting void.
I only knew I wanted that night to last.

And it did.

I just didn’t know that after it,
the trees would stand bare.
And the grass would only ever sting.