When I died on the hospital bed, I was still clutching the unsent love letter to Suman.
In my last life, I chased her for ten years. From the Chinese class when I first met her in the second year of high school, to her crying while holding her daughter in a widowed marriage, I pestered her like a madman, but all I got from her was "You're just a child," and I finally closed my eyes with the regret of "Why can't you love me?"
When I opened my eyes, I was 17 years old again - she was standing on the podium wearing an off-white dress, her Hong Kong-style eyebrows were as bright as light, and I didn't have time to be stupid in the audience.
In this life, I put away my obsession.
He no longer chased her to ask for answers, but quietly helped her move the heavy homework book, recorded the size of her daughter Su Nian's children's clothing, and handed her a warm tissue when she was angry at a student;
No longer giving up on herself, staying up late to study questions to get from the middle of the class to the top ten in grade, working part-time on weekends writing code to save money, hoping that she would have a place to rely on when she gets tired one day;
I didn't even miss her hiding in the office late at night crying, saying softly: "Teacher Su, you deserve better."
When she came to me with red eyes holding the divorce certificate and said, "I'm free," I finally dared to hold her hand:
"Suman, I didn't protect you in the last life. It's me this time - from school uniforms to wedding dresses, from teachers and students to family members, I want to make your smile never bring tears again."
