If we hadn't been together that summer

Night, that touch of darkness, was rendered by the neon lights of the bustling street. At night, it was quiet, infected by the whistling sound of cars. Under the eyes of this seemingly calm bustling city, I do not know how many memories are hidden by the years. No one mentioned it, no one asked, only a gentle sigh.

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Dark night, bleak rain, the flow of the sadness of time. This night I listened to the cold rain outside the window. I couldn't hear whether it was calling or sobbing, or maybe it was telling me. The secret words of rain sound are the voice of my heart that I don't understand. Sitting in front of the window, looking at the night scene cut off by raindrops, the lights dimly reflect a few fallen leaves falling with the wind, and the yellowing lights reflect the fallen leaves and raindrops, sketching too much vicissitudes of life, which just sets off the desolation of this scene. Rain Water fell in front of the shop window, and the dripping rain seemed to depict the scene of parting that year. There are oil paper umbrellas on the edge of the bridge, the oath of Sansheng with closed eyes under the wishing tree, the forever written in the shade of willow catkins, and the pictures of laughing under the ginkgo tree, all of which are related to you.

That night, I wrote for you the letter I had promised to write to you. I wrote it word by word, fearing that my healed heart would be torn apart again. On this page, I outline your favorite scene. I still remember the scenery we saw together that year. The bonsai with butterflies on the windowsill and around us never stops. There is also the willow under the ginkgo city, the dragonfly sitting on your left shoulder on the bluestone bench. I don't know where it will stop now, and I don't know if it will still be attracted by our sincere feelings. I still remember that year we were very close, the wind blew very light, and the two figures holding hands on the small stone road next to the ancient city, at that time, the outline of your side face also attracted me deeply. These pictures continue to write the past, the continuation of the past is also farther away from my line of sight, leaving only the familiar laughter, surrounded by my ears, sometimes clear and sometimes blurred, but will never stop.

Miss into letterhead, I have described for you in the fairy tale said forever. I still remember that I always thought about you several times before I picked up the pen, and all that came to mind was a picture of you. That summer, we wrote a good time together, standing on the edge of the bridge to watch the sunset in the west, rosy clouds all over the sky, we promised to stay together forever. I like to look at your face, your green face smiles slightly sweet, often meet outside the ancient city, I am used to holding my left hand, counting how many circles it has turned between us, you will come to me.

In the eaves of the rain that year, we counted the raindrops, and every scene there had your smiling face. I like holding you with a small paper umbrella and taking the most beautiful pictures for you on the small stone path. Now open the drawer, looking at the faded photos, oil-paper umbrellas scattered petals, recording the passage of time is far away, the twinkling of an eye mixed with sadness, leaving only cold memories hovering in my mind.

Sigh the sadness of the micro time, the loss of too good the past, I dare not look back. That year, autumn, the sky was slightly cool, and we ended up composing together forever. I do not know since when, I am used to immersed in sad and beautiful words, the right hand pen outline sad flow of words. Often in the middle of the night, I will use a paragraph of text to write down my own thoughts, and I will also use words to write touching words. Even if I am the only one who is moved in the end, I will foreshadow with heart.

When the scenery was bleak, I was buried in the world I had walked through with the past. After leaving, how long will the people we have met stay in their minds and linger before they are slowly forgotten? We always come and go in a hurry, drifting, sometimes do not even dare to look directly at the scenery in front of us, afraid to expect too much and will double the sadness. At some intersection I was alone, my footsteps were uncertain, I didn't know whether to go left or right, and I dared not imagine who would wait for me in front of me.

When I had gray hair at the temples, my pen was still full of ink, embellished in the past, and the ink-splashed painting reflected the initial green appearance. In my leisure time, as in the past, I habitually sat by the window, tasted a pot of tea, looked up at the misty rain and ink outside the window, and wrote the story of the world with a pen. In the familiar words, there are two hands holding hands in the back of the sunset, the theme is too gorgeous, beautiful memory of that period once. There is also the scene of the platform turning away, the mournful figure, the mournful love is that we are too young at that time. At this time, I no longer hide the past, hold a memory with my left hand, outline words deeply rooted in the hearts of the people in my right hand, and write down all the people and things I have encountered along the way in my life on plain notes. I don't know who will appreciate and taste the micro times of the past in the end.

See through, put down, muddle along, in order to live happily. I always feel that some memories always meet in my mind, just like the tenderness you left in the letterhead, which is waiting for me that I can never guess. Still remember you once said to me, you will always remember that there is a me in your life, but now you, where will stay? Will I wake up in the middle of the night and think of me who once walked through a certain journey hand in hand with you? will I still remember the forever we wrote together, the place where we last met, and the scene of the last hug? But we did not expect that the last goodbye we said turned out to be forever.

(Wen / Lu Nianan / tr. by Robert Taylor)