Three People. Six People.

The rain in Times Square resembled the heavy, descending words in Cloud Gate Dance Theatre’s About Island—not sharp enough to pierce the skin, yet maddening in its loneliness.

In a Times Square café, Saba’s lips opened and closed as he practiced telling stories no one would ever understand. His editor, sitting across from him, weary, mindlessly tore napkins into pieces.

In a darkroom in Taipei, a girl displayed her photography to this man she had only recently met. Schrödinger looked at the girl's tattoo and wondered: if today never came, would tomorrow still have yesterday?

All eyes followed Jermane as she danced, her dance moves made the world blur, like sipping wine while tasting a piece of daydream. Jermane was obsessed with dancing—not for the art, but to numb herself, hoping one day love wouldn’t hurt, hoping that all affection could be free of attachment and resentment.

Jermane, Schrödinger, and Saba had been friends since high school—once a group of eleven, then eight, then four. Their trio felt like either chance or fate.

The first time just the three of them met was on a day so cold it made the sky cry. Saba, trying to help Jermane through a depressive broke up, invited Schrödinger—who was on holiday from the military service—out for dinner.

“Maybe people on military service just have too much free time,” Jermane thought. “I’ve never seen this trio hang out together before.”

That day, Jermane made a flimsy, unconvincing resolution to leave the guy she was seeing; Schrödinger confessed to ending a year-long relationship and was now recklessly swiping through dating apps; Saba listened to their love lives and wanted to tear the house down.

Jermane always knew, deep down, she loved Schrödinger. They were so philosophically in sync—you understand me, I understand you. But they could never meet when both were single. Schrödinger soon found another partner, and Jermane entered a secret relationship of her own.

Saba? He was just discovering what love might feel like.