“The doctor said my memories would slowly be erased, like words rubbed away with an eraser. I would start by forgetting his name, and in the end, I would forget myself.
But I remember so clearly: that day, when the sunlight passed through his hair, I painted a sixth color that didn't exist anywhere in the world. I called it ‘Zhou's Color.’
Lu Xingzhou wrote my name on his palm: ‘Yanhe, even if you ask me who I am tomorrow, I still want to tell you today: I love you.’
Later, I forgot his voice and what he looked like, yet every time I saw him, I instinctively wanted to hold his hand.
His voice recorder holds 372 recordings of my rambling thoughts. On the last page of my notebook, I wrote: ‘The person you love is the one whose pain makes your heart ache.’
It turns out that, in the end, love doesn't need memories at all.
Look, even the wind is saying I love you.”
