I am a lonely wanderer, born and dying alone. At different times, in different places, and across countless worlds, I meet countless souls. We meet again in the vast sea of people, at this very moment.

　　I sit here, and you sit across from me. I feel your gaze, your breath. And I know, it’s my gaze, my breath. I have you, and you have me.

　　Why do I get lost? Why do I wander? Why do I chase it? Why do I seek answers? This is the meaning of existence, and yet, it is meaningless!

　　You don’t know we are meeting again, but I do. You don’t know we are parting once more, but I do. You don’t know that you are eternal, immortal, but I do. You don’t know that you are perfect, complete, but I do.

　　Yes, we have different identities, that’s true. But it’s not real. We live different lives, yes, but that’s not real either.

　　My dear, our meeting is lucky, inevitable. And yet, it’s also a dream!

　　The doctor looked at me solemnly and said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news to share, Miss Zhou.” He handed me the report. I noticed his hand trembling slightly, and the regret in his voice. I took the report and turned to the last page. Four bold words jumped out at me: “Advanced stage lung cancer.”

　　“You call this bad news?” I couldn’t help but laugh.

　　“Zhou... Miss Zhou?” He looked at me, confused, surprised.

　　I understood his confusion. Not everyone could comprehend this laugh, this deep, inexplicable laughter.

　　His face shifted. Quickly, he explained, “We’ve been testing for days, even doing PET-CT scans, but the results still show a mass in your right lung. It’s already…” His words trailed off, concerned I wouldn’t believe him.

　　According to his description, the typical symptoms of lung cancer were coughing and blood in the phlegm. But I had none of that. My only symptoms were a hoarse voice, occasional chest tightness, shortness of breath, and fever. There were no other symptoms to confirm the diagnosis, but the test results didn’t lie.

　　I smiled and waved my hand, telling him that the hoarseness in my voice was just from my teenage years, when my voice had changed. I wasn’t doubting his diagnosis, not at all. I respected doctors for their careful, patient, and rigorous work. To me, they are angels in white coats.

　　He seemed disappointed. He had probably expected a different reaction. My laughter, or perhaps my indifference, seemed to stir something deep in him.

　　I know everyone lives their own story, plays the protagonist in their own world. I thought about his trembling hand when he handed me the report. Perhaps, for him, advanced stage lung cancer had a different meaning.

　　This made me smile, like I was comforting my own daughter after she had suffered. So, in my own way, I comforted him — by staying silent.

　　I noticed his face gradually soften, and he smiled, relieved. His demeanor changed, as if I had done something unspoken, something almost magical. It felt like I had polished a delicate key that finally unlocked a treasure chest.

　　As I left his office, I couldn’t quite remember everything he said. But one thing stuck with me: As he saw me out, he said, “Miss Zhou, I hope we’ll meet again.”

　　He didn’t urge me to undergo surgery. Maybe he thought it would be too burdensome for me, especially given the pain it would cause. Or maybe he thought I couldn’t afford it, given my background. I smiled to myself, thinking of how he had subtly asked about my finances over the past few days.

　　He’s really good at empathizing with others!

　　I am grateful to live in a city with clean, spacious roads and meticulously designed streets lined with greenery. The road in front of me is divided into two sides. On one side, there are few cars — both in front and behind — while the other side is a jam of traffic, cars stuck in place like snails. But for some reason, the cars on my side move very slowly.

　　Through open windows, I catch occasional glimpses of drivers, their expressions relaxed, as if they were part of some strange contrast to the hurried pace of the city. On the other side, the cars line up tightly, congested, pressure building on their small bodies. A few glances are enough to steal your breath.

　　I thought, Perhaps some of the drivers over there envy those on my side. But even if they wanted to turn around, it was impossible. The road has its rules. If they turn now, even if there’s no collision, they’ll be punished for going the wrong way.

　　In front of me, a trash can with four compartments: kitchen waste, hazardous waste, recyclable materials, and other waste. And on the ground, a plastic bottle from a well-known brand. It’s twisted into a tangled shape, unable to return to its original state because the cap is sealed tightly. The breeze rocks it back and forth, making a soft sound, like it’s welcoming me.

　　Funny, I thought, that the owner of this bottle could twist it into this shape but couldn’t bother to put it in the trash can.

　　I walked over, smiling. Closer, I saw water droplets inside the bottle. I glanced at the labels on the trash bin, and imagined myself placing the bottle in the “recyclable materials” compartment. The moment I threw it in, it collided with the metal side, making a pleasant sound.

　　Maybe not everyone would find that sound pleasing. But to me, it’s as beautiful as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Both are beautiful in their own way.

　　And yet, I walked straight past the trash can, past the bottle, without stopping, without bending down, or even looking at them. My mind went blank. It wasn’t until I walked down the street that I realized I had wanted to throw the bottle away.

　　A thought crossed my mind, Am I really free? Can I do what I want?

　　I don’t know. Maybe the owner of the bottle, just like me, could twist it into whatever shape they wanted, but couldn’t put it in the trash. And that’s okay, because it already happened.

　　I got on the bus. In the past few years, I’ve rarely found a seat, not even at the starting station. Even when someone gets off, I never seem to get that chance. Over time, I stopped hoping for a seat. But today, being Sunday, the bus was packed. We were like sardines in a can.

　　There’s a man in front of me, talking loudly on his phone, bragging about his business. The young man next to me sneers. “What’s he pretending for? If he’s so rich, why take the bus?”

　　Behind me, an elderly couple is talking. The auntie is on the phone, excitedly telling someone about the vegetables she bought and the dishes she’s cooking for her husband. When she hangs up, her expression falls, and the uncle asks, “Is our son coming back tonight?”

　　A sudden cough interrupts the scene. I turn, intrigued by the old man in his seventies, whose cough is clearly directed at the young man. The young man pretends to be asleep, ignoring the old man’s pointed cough. The old man’s eyes burn with dissatisfaction.

　　“Cough!” He coughs again, louder this time.

　　The young man can’t pretend anymore. “Sir, please stop. I haven’t had lunch yet, taken three buses already, and I have work later. Can you let me rest for a bit?”

　　The passengers look at the old man as if he were a villain, no longer feeling sorry for the young man. It’s the audience’s judgment — and it’s always right.

　　After the young man speaks, he reclines with a smug smile, as if he’s won some battle. The old man turns away, breathing heavily, his face darkening with frustration.

　　I hold my bag with one hand, gripping the hanging loop with the other. The bus is crowded, and I’m sweating. But every few stops, I manage to move back, a small blessing in this sea of people.