我期待的不是雪
Just like any other Asian daughter, I was brought up by tiger parents with endless music lessons in my childhood. I finished my Diploma in piano, and despite so, to abandon them when my career took off in adulthood. (“It would be good to learn music as a child,” they say, “but don’t pursue music as a career!” they also say.) Having been classically trained, I developed an acute sensitivity to music - one that naturally intertwines songs with key memories in life.
A week ago, I found a spot at my favourite cafe at Cluny Court, with a pot of tea and croissant, I sat down with my laptop, motivated to clear my backlog of work. I plugged in my headphones and opened Spotify. The breathy vocals of 我期待的不是雪 washed over me - each word tender and intimate, like a careless whisper in my ear. A hit from two years ago, the song had once become an earworm for me - not just because of the melody, but because at that time its lyrics gave voice to a love I longed for, a love I once believed I had found in my ex.
That jolt of déjà vu reminded me that healing isn’t always about sealing wounds shut - it’s about learning to walk with them, like a familiar refrain that catches you off guard. I allowed the song to wash over me, savoured the memories of what once was, then gently skipped the song ready to close the book on everything that had resurfaced. I chose not to let the chords pull me back into sorrow. Instead, I rooted myself in the present: the room, the breath, the moment. Then I checked my Slack notifications.
Life, I realise, would always be a playlist of our joys and our losses, each song a marker on an evolving timeline of who we had been. I didn’t need the snow to fall again - I needed the thaw that followed, the promise of growth in every melting drop.