Ten Years of Recovery

If youth had a voice, it would be the "arrive" when the student numbers are next to each other, the deep voice when he reads poetry, and the heartbeat that accelerates for someone on the basketball court. Lin Wan's college days began with two numbers next to each other on the bulletin board: 202011 and 202012. They are close because their student numbers are adjacent, but they are silent and alienated because of the unevenness of the world. She cherished every warmth he sent, but flinched when he invited her to his birthday; he understood all her timidity, but after she graduated and traveled far away, she chose someone "like her" to get married. The seemingly parallel tracks have long been intertwined in the depths of fate - he fell into depression late at night, and it was still her name that he unconsciously murmured. When they met again in the ward filled with the smell of disinfectant, she finally squeezed his cold hand and said the words that were ten years late: "I'm here." This is a story about "adjacency" - adjacent student numbers, adjacent but untouched youth, adjacent but missed destiny. It is not only the fallen sycamore leaves and the fragrance of soy milk on campus, but also the depression and storm, family gap and the weight of reality in the adult world. But in the end, it is about a kind of quiet bravery: when the cocoon of inferiority is worn away by the years, and when the deep love gathers enough courage, can the two souls still cross the sea of ​​​​people and find the original position destined to be adjacent? From the 11th to the 12th, from youth to the rest of life. This time, they didn't miss it.