15/6/25 A Wakeful Night

Late at night, I couldn’t fall asleep.

Though to be honest, it isn't that late, just around eleven.

Beans and I had watched Orlando, a film adapted from Virginia Woolf’s novel. It’s a beautiful piece—telling the story of a person who moves through centuries and shifts between genders, in a continuous search for the self. The fluidity of gender, the freedom of consciousness, it all felt incredibly ahead of its time.

This morning, I woke up without brushing my teeth or washing my face.

The first thing I did was call my dad to wish him a happy Father’s Day, and then I video-called my mom. At the same time, Beans was also talking to his mother on a video call.

Suddenly, the ground began to shake.

I was startled, a bit shaken myself.

As I opened the bedroom door, he was just about to come in to check on me.

We looked at each other and said, “Let’s get ready and take the stairs down.”

Everything happened so naturally. We both told our mothers we needed to end the call, and somehow, almost unintentionally—I ended up saying hi to his mom, and he said hi to mine.

Then we grabbed our passports, wallets, phones, and some water, and headed out.

Thankfully, the quake was brief and left no harm behind.

We had breakfast at a Japanese specialty café, sent messages to let our families know we were safe, and then each went off to do our own things until dinner.

That evening, we shared a super delicious vegan meal, and watched Orlando together.

Later that night, before bed, we lay side by side reading.

I began reading Orlando, and the feeling of reading the story was so different from watching it onscreen.

Even though the content was similar, the words gave birth to more branches, more space for imagining.

I could pause, linger over each line, and let myself drift into that sense of vagueness, of softness, of something weightless and undefined.

Beans drifted off to sleep after reading for a while.

His breathing was soft and steady. I turned to look at his sleeping face—his fine brows, relaxed eyelids, pink lips gently pouting, and those round, pillowy cheeks resting quietly in sleep.

Watching him like that, I felt a wave of tenderness rising quietly in my chest.

Our time together is ordinary and playful, soft and steady, romantic, real.

We go to museums and wander separately, then circle back to share what moved us;

When we’re low or tired, we allow ourselves to be seen in our vulnerabilities;

Sometimes, we sit together without speaking and still feel deeply at ease, deeply held;

We once went to pick out essential oils for my scalp, which had been damaged from sunburn during my trip. He took it seriously, asking the sales assistant questions, trying to choose the best one for me. His attentiveness, even in these small things, touched me.

Our time together isn’t just soft and real—it’s also electric.

There’s a fire between us that can spark at any moment, without planning, without pretense. It doesn’t have to be nighttime, or a bedroom. Sometimes it’s a glance, a playful word, a shift in breath, a closeness.

Our sex is wild, free, safe, and to be honest, on a whole other level.

With him, I feel completely safe and relaxed—so much so that my body began to open in ways I had never experienced before.

Yes, I even began to experience squirting.

Just because I let go, I feel safe and loved, I relax, I love, and my body responded.

It was surprising, beautiful, and powerful.

I never imagined I could feel this kind of intimacy: feral and tender, raw and deeply held, all at once.

Too intense? Haha, maybe.

But come on—it’s Shikin's blog, not a nun’s diary.

Last night, we went to an alternative party, it was my first time going to a party with someone I was seeing. I’m not a party animal, but I can easily enjoy a party on my own. I’m someone who needs time to open up, but once I feel open, I connect quickly and genuinely. That night, I was fully in my element. Sometimes we danced together, then drifted apart, then circled back again. We chatted separately with many interesting people—most of them local underground artists.

And there was this one funny moment: Beans was talking with a chef, and I was dancing alone on the floor. A guy came up to hit on me. I’m always open to meeting new people no matter which stage I am at, of course, but I could immediately sense that his intention wasn’t to know me or connect with me, but to dive straight into some mediocre shallow romance. I don’t like that.

So I didn’t engage much the conversation.

Then he asked me how old I was.

I said, “Forty-five.”

He didn’t believe me.

I ignored him.

He asked if I had a partner.

I said, “Of course, want me to introduce you to him?”

I turned around just in time to see Beans and his new chef friend standing nearby, watching the scene.

I introduced them.

They shook hands.

And I went right back to dancing alone, like nothing ever happened.

By the end of the day, I just wanna have a good time!

That moment made me laugh, also realize: being out with someone doesn’t have to mean being in the cage. I can be completely myself. I can feel free.

And sometimes, it’s really nice to have someone nearby who can help swat away the annoying flies.

That kind of non-clinging, non-invasive, non-suffocating togetherness is exactly what I like.

I know I still have many things to work through, and I’m learning to face them, slowly and patiently. But there’s one thing I’m absolutely clear on: I can’t compromise when it comes to feeling free in intimacy. The foundation has to be that I am still fully myself. I can bend, stretch, open—but I cannot disappear.

That fear—the fear of being trapped, of being controlled, of having my physical and emotional space invaded—comes from old wounds.

I’m afraid of being consumed, of someone trying to define or possess me.

I’m afraid that my emotions will be expected to orbit someone else entirely.

That I’ll lose the ability to speak honestly, to be myself.

That I’ll shrink, slowly, into silence, into function, into a role.

But when I look back at my journey of healing, I feel joyful.

So much has quietly shifted.

I’m proud of myself for being open to learn, and grateful for the people who have shown me how.

Sometimes, I feel like a newborn—stumbling, raw, constantly re-learning how to love, and how to recognize myself along the way.

I kept reading, but a gentle sadness suddenly rose in my chest—quiet, formless.

Out of nowhere, I thought of an old friend.

There was no reason, no warning.

Just a memory arriving on its own.

I pulled out some film photos I’d taken of her, flipping through them one by one.

We were once neighbors.

We once supported each other through quiet, ordinary days that, in retrospect, were full of warmth.

We once shared a kind of closeness that didn't need too many words.

I know—there’s a kind of sorrow in how that friendship drifted.

But maybe that’s what growing up is.

A series of tiny goodbyes, a few roads that can’t be walked back.

I put the book down, wrapped myself in a blanket, and curled up on the living room couch.

Outside, the sea breeze was still moving.

And I thought—maybe there’s no need to fall asleep too quickly tonight.

Some feelings don’t need to be named too precisely—like night wind, dust on film, a sleeping face, or the rhythm of breath while reading.

The ones that are still shifting, uncertain, undefined, and moving.

"And as long as she lives, she will go on and on. For she has never stopped walking."