I'm not the marrying type.

Some things, once broken, seem to never be truly fixed.

This is a true account of "aftershocks of survival." From the pandemic lockdown of 2020 to the early spring awakening of 2024, Zhui Qi spent four years navigating the quagmire of illness and love, acknowledging, identifying, and accepting the "unsuitable" essence of her soul.

In the social game of pursuing perfection, she chose to step down. At four in the morning, she listened to the rain falling like scattered pills, a sound so mundane yet capable of gnawing at her, indulging in a flood of memories. When her roommate bought and admired flowers, she subtly realized the chasm between them and that "fleeting beauty" was as useless as love. Passing a bridal shop at night, she felt nauseous seeing dresses "dead" on mannequins. These words may not be a cry for help, but rather a more candid response to the world:

"I've died so many times, and time has flowed over me, yet I still haven't found the so-called cure to be healed. I just continue to walk alone, resurrected, in a barren patch of land, planting weeds like myself, coexisting with my inner ugliness and hysteria."

Zhui Qi writes, "I am not the kind of person you can, you want, you are willing to marry." This is not self-pity, but a self-affirmation and choice of identity, unrelated to others, merely an intensely private acceptance of fate. She decides to carry her shattered marks, to live in her broken time zone as insignificant starlight.