Life after depression, Lin Wan felt, was nothing but a circle—one each day, or every few days—always beginning in sorrow, looping back to its bleak starting point. Some things were like this: only when you dared to look them in the eye would you realize how truly terrifying they were. Once, she had been willful, even flirted with self-destruction from time to time, indulging the seed of depression as it sprouted quietly within her. By the time it grew into a sapling, she finally sensed the danger—yet the moment she raised her blade to sever it, it had already shot up into a towering, sky-blotting tree she could never hope to move.
Standing beneath its shadow, she recognized how small—how powerless—she truly was.
What she feared most were mornings and nights. Each day, the first thought upon waking was death—not the desire to die, but the word itself, slipping into her mind like a habitual refrain. And every night, before sleep, she couldn't stop thinking that she had managed to endure yet another day… or that there was now one day fewer left to live.
Daytime was somewhat better. Busy, she was a wounded soldier on the battlefield—slashing forward, killing as many enemies as she could, forgetting that she herself was bleeding. But the moment she slowed, the dark and poisonous thoughts burst forth like bamboo shoots after rain. She would find herself afraid of slipping on a staircase—one fall, and she'd die or be crippled—afraid to join coworkers for a chat on the rooftop during lunch, terrified that the short railing wouldn't hold back the urge to leap. Walking down a crowded street, facing the roaring tide of traffic, she feared she might suddenly dart forward…
Death was like a wicked goddess, crooking her finger from afar, smiling with seductive charm, whispering spells of temptation. Sometimes Lin Wan even heard her.
"Your life is exhausting. Why keep struggling?"
"No one cherishes you. Look how pathetic your life is."
"The world is filthy and cruel. What's left to cling to?"
"One simple gesture… and you'll finally be free."
"Come."
She knew they were hallucinations—or rather, voices born from her own heart. She stood before a strange mirror, seeing only herself, hearing only herself. That so-called god of death was nothing more than her own reflection, the softest, weakest part of her splintered soul.
Perhaps all human struggle was the clash between differing selves—each personality wrestling for control, waxing and waning in a fragile equilibrium. Sanity survived only because none could wholly overpower the others. But now, the strong "her" had vanished, leaving only the weak. The weak could not rule; abandoned by God, she sought help from Death.
What kept her alive—barely—was a faint whisper lingering in her ear: Live. Just live.
Why live? She had no answer. But everyone knew that old saying: Better a miserable life than a glorious death. No one knew what the afterlife truly held; if dreams of the dead meant anything—then that world seemed even harsher.
Lin Wan understood one truth: the dead could never return, but the living could choose death at any moment. Living meant holding two cards; dying left her with one. If she wanted to survive—not as a hollow corpse breathing out of obligation—she needed to find that strong self again. And before she found her, she would have to erect a false one to suppress the weakling within, stopping "her" from throwing herself into Death's embrace. She must pretend to be strong, paint over the cracks, fabricate an illusion of balance.
But the disguise was exhausting. She was an honest soul hiding a catastrophic secret, nervous and restless; a sheet of paper wrapped around a blazing fire, moments away from being burned through into nothingness. So she hid—kept her distance from others. That way she wouldn't accidentally speak the truth in her sleep; even if she turned to ash, no one would know.
Perhaps it was a warped sense of pride. She feared judgment and pity—had since childhood. Pity was not love, charity not true help. They never made her stronger; they only deepened her weakness, her sorrow, making her even more pitiful—thus inviting more pity. The cycle was more unbearable than death itself. She even considered ending her life while she still possessed a sliver of clarity—at least she could choose a dignified way to die.
She felt like a silkworm, spinning threads around herself, weaving a thick cocoon. If she lived, it was her armor; if she died, her tomb. She never imagined that one day, a man would tear it open—dragging her back into the light… and also straight into the storm. At first, she resisted violently. If there was anyone she most wanted to hide from, it was A Jin. What could be more humiliating than having one's enemy to discover every weakness?
But the mockery she expected never came. He seemed startled—perhaps even a little pained. She forced herself to believe it was an illusion. After all, cats shed tears over mice too—fake mercy. And even if the cat truly cried, it was only because it had lost a toy.
Yet after he ripped away her shell, she felt something like relief. No more constant hiding. In a strange way, it was a kind of liberation. How absurd—the one who freed her was neither her savior nor death, but her enemy: the devil who wounded her, who stole her freedom. Shackles and salvation, born of the same person—what a ridiculous, yet perfectly ironic truth.
It was, essentially, the psychology of a broken jar shattering deeper. He had already seen her most disgraceful, helpless, humiliating self—inside and out. In his eyes, she had no dignity left, so why pretend? Pride was a burden anyway. She comforted herself: perhaps this was the fabled rebirth born from ruin.
Later, A Jin began "fulfilling" his promises, and to her surprise, he was convincing. She knew he was the type to play every act with full devotion; yet his games, meant to entertain him, often decided another person's fate. But she also knew that a frog at the bottom of a well could never escape alone. If the serpent was willing to serve as a rope, she might as well grasp it. Life and death—perhaps hinging on a single decision.
Months passed. The doctor—and A Jin—said she had improved. She wasn't sure, but one thing was certain: her sleep had gotten better. Proper exercise and regular routines truly are keys to health. Her body strengthened; stairs no longer left her breathless, winter no longer chilled her to the bone, and she no longer coughed her way through every other week.
And one other change was unmistakable—she spoke more, especially with A Jin. Once, he was the iron shackle on her ankle, the dark cloud over her head. He suffocated her; she hated him, feared him, trembled under his shadow.
Now he had transformed—from a vicious wolf into a harmless lamb, from a devil incarnate to a bumbling jester. The contrast shocked her, intrigued her, and stirred an opportunistic urge to take advantage while she could—before he snapped back to his old self. She teased him relentlessly, pranked him when inspiration struck. And she realized she had become who she once was—the girl who seized every chance to challenge him.
To duel with another was intoxicating. These tiny skirmishes sparked a forgotten joy. It was a promising sign—for depression's cruelest hallmark was the absence of interest in anything, even life itself. She at least had two interests left: Ni Ni… and A Jin.
So though she still traced circles, though her emotions sometimes spiraled—tears erupting without warning, irritation clawing through her chest, death-tinged thoughts whispering on occasion—she could now glimpse a sliver of light breaking through her clouds. Hope, however faint, was enough to stir a heartbeat.