So… the stairs weren’t wood — they were my therapist’s last breath.

The sunlight didn’t shine — it whispered poetry while I sipped matcha at 3 a.m., pretending I’m not crying.

My hanfu? Not fashion. It’s my soul’s shadow doing yoga with gravity.

Who are you looking at? Not me. Just a ghost in motion.

P.S. If your staircase could breathe… would it also ask for more tea? Or just… silence? 🫷