In the library of the University of Nottingham, Cheng Weiyu pushed away the hot cocoa offered by the boy next to her and scrawled a conclusion in her notebook - "Childish, just a redundant calculation of hormones."
She firmly believes that people are like jigsaw puzzles, and the edges and corners must fit together perfectly. For example, Jiang Yubai, a senior boy who always wears a holey sweatshirt: his ear bone nails are shaking the ceiling lamp of the library, and his draft paper is full of meaningless graffiti. It is like an unexpected "wrong module" that should have been eliminated from her life blueprint long ago.
Until I bumped into him huddled in the corner of a convenience store, rewriting a handwritten collection of poems. In his canvas bag was lotus root and pork ribs soup that had been simmered for five hours. He was reading classical Chinese after drinking 8+1 at the KTV.
This tug-of-war started with prejudice and ended with countless midnight video calls and two stubborn souls betting on equations eight thousand kilometers apart, overturning all preset answers frame by frame. When she picked him up at the Capital Airport after graduating, notices of London flight delays were scrolling on the electronic screen. He shook the ring box hidden in his degree certificate: "Do you want to take a gamble? This time the error is definitely less than 0.01%."
On the day of the wedding, her best friend held up champagne and joked: "They say the age is unreliable, but this script of yours -" She looked down and glanced at the longitude and latitude of London on the day they first met engraved on the inside of the wedding ring, and suddenly remembered the words he always said.
Some mistakes made in summer will take a lifetime to falsify.
