(Please scroll down for the English version.)

    我和小狐的故事开始于温州。

    2021年我终于高中毕业。我迫不及待地告别在雅典的四年生活，回到温州开始我的gap year。这一年我意外地因为在互联网发布自己的创作视频而得到了不小的关注度，于是决定尝试做一名全职自媒体博主。

    这我来说是一个全新的开始，它意味着我脱离家庭独立人生的开始：独自居住在温州郊外大山脚下的一个小公寓中，努力照顾自己、赚钱来养活自己。一开始我对此充满期待，这于我而言意味着逃离。在希腊的这四年我无时无刻不想着要逃走，阳光、大海或是街道旁的结满橘子的果树都无法让我的心意动摇半分，这一切都从来不属于我；而我最心爱的两只小猫也于某日在塞萨洛尼基的海边消失得无影无踪，在我心里留下难以愈合的伤痕。日复一日的学校生活，永远永远被当作是个外来者。

    所以我迫不及待地奔向温州的新生活，来到我的故乡，一个也许可以接纳我的城市。

    可是独立生活并不像它听起来的那么酷，独立的背后是许许多多繁琐的细节堆积。自由职业要怎么规划，用什么样的作息生活，每天该吃些什么，遇见蟑螂要怎么办，如何保持心情的愉快，如何保持家里的干净整洁，又如何排解孤独交到朋友呢？对这些事情我并没有太多的头绪。我其实并不知道如何照顾自己。在希腊这几年的情绪压力和我对自己外表的焦虑使我进食紊乱，我头脑里总有着不真实的标准，我总是浑浑噩噩地在暴饮暴食和催吐的循环中挣扎着。我也难以按照规律的作息生活，我时常天快亮时才入睡，在太阳快落山时醒来，用能量饮料和酒精交替着延续生命。在金钱管理上我也毫无经验，一下子可以接触到便捷的网购之后，汹涌而来的物欲也迅速地将我填满。在网络上我很受欢迎，我依靠品牌合作的收入支持着自己的小小生活，可是流量焦虑也让我时刻坐立不安；我总盯着数据的变化，脑子里时时刻刻挤满了观众；我开始厌恶我自己画出来的东西，并且总是用暴饮暴食来缓解焦虑。于是最后，一切都在恶性循环。

    2022年，我遇见小狐。它是我网购给自己的生日礼物。很奇怪吧，是什么样的人会给自己送生日礼物呢？

    我需要小狐，因为我很孤独。住在郊区，我平日生活中几乎唯一的消遣就是盛装打扮之后坐一个小时的公交车到市中心的live house看演出。当然，我也偶尔会去我妹妹那里拜访。因为有社交恐惧，不知道怎么和陌生人讲话，所以每次只是让自己沉醉在大分贝的音量里，摇晃头脑和身躯，暂时让自己在几首歌的时间里脱离现实。然而，从热烈的摇滚乐中回到家中，一切就会变得格外安静，安静得令人沮丧。于是我只好在落寞的空气中努力督促自己去卸妆，然后一个人带着livehouse里的烟酒味道钻进被窝。所以，小狐的存在就是能让我有一个对象可以无所顾忌地倾诉。我对着它讲话、讲我看见的事物、讲我心里的感受，于是空气被稍稍加热、耳朵里开始听到一些声音、神经慢慢放松、我便蜷缩着身体、紧抱着小狐沉沉睡去。我和它讨论生活中的问题：要不要接下这个合作，要不要买下这件衣服，现在可不可以吃东西，今天要怎么安排；我的生活便不再那么孤立无援，在情绪低落的时候我知道总有一个声音会安慰我，尽管那可能是源自我脑海的一种幻想。

    My story with Little Fox began in Wenzhou

    In 2021, I finally graduated from high school. Eagerly, I left behind four years in Athens and returned to Wenzhou to begin my gap year. It was an unexpected year—I gained a fair amount of attention by sharing my creative videos online, and I decided to give full-time content creation a try.

    This was a brand-new beginning, a step into independence away from my family. I moved into a small apartment at the foot of a mountain in the Wenzhou countryside, learning to care for myself, to earn my own way. I started out with a heart full of anticipation—this, for me, meant escape. My four years in Greece had felt like a slow-motion exile. Neither the sunshine, the sea, nor the orange trees lining the streets could stir me from the feeling of being somewhere I didn’t belong. Even my two beloved cats had vanished one day by the coast in Thessaloniki, leaving a wound that time hadn’t touched. School days passed in numbing repetition, always an outsider, always someone else’s guest.

    So I threw myself into the arms of Wenzhou, a place that felt like it might hold me, my hometown, a city that could embrace me.

    Yet living alone was nothing like the romance it promised. The independence I craved was buried in a thousand small and tedious details. How to structure my days as a freelancer, what daily rhythm to set, what to eat each day, how to deal with cockroaches, how to keep my spirits up, how to keep my little home clean, how to fill the loneliness and make friends? I had no real sense of how to handle any of these things. Truthfully, I barely knew how to take care of myself. The emotional strain and body-image anxiety I’d felt in Greece had left me struggling with disordered eating. My mind was cluttered with impossible standards, and I drifted from binge eating to purging, caught in a relentless loop. I couldn’t stick to a schedule—I would often fall asleep at dawn and wake just as the sun was setting, running on energy drinks and alcohol. Financially, I was also lost, unprepared for the flood of desire that convenient online shopping unleashed. I was popular on the internet, making enough to scrape by through brand deals, but the anxiety over views left me restless. I’d constantly watch the stats rise and fall, my head crowded with thoughts of my audience. I grew to hate what I made and used binge eating to calm the turmoil. Slowly, it all sank into a vicious cycle.

    Then, in 2022, I met Little Fox. It was a birthday present I bought for myself. Strange, isn’t it? Who buys themselves a birthday gift?

    But I needed Little Fox—I was unbearably lonely. Living in the suburbs, my only relief was to get dressed up, take an hour-long bus to the city center, and lose myself in the music at a live house. Occasionally, I would visit my sister, too. But my social anxiety made talking to strangers feel impossible, so I simply let the loud music pull me under, my mind and body swaying in rhythm, escaping reality for just a few songs. Yet returning home to the silence after the raucous rock music only made everything feel that much emptier—a loneliness so profound it swallowed all sound. I would drag myself through the ritual of removing my makeup, slipping into bed alone, wrapped in the scent of smoke and alcohol from the club. Little Fox became my solace, someone I could speak to freely, pouring out my thoughts, my worries, my fleeting glimpses of beauty, filling the empty air with words. Gradually, the silence softened, and I could hear my own voice, a warmth that eased the tension in my chest. I would curl up, holding Little Fox close, and drift into sleep.  We would talk about the little decisions in life: whether to take a new partnership, whether to buy a certain outfit, whether it was okay to eat now, or how to shape the day ahead. My life began to feel a little less desolate; in my lowest moments, I knew that there would always be a voice to console me, even if that voice was just a gentle echo from my own mind.