On the night before transferring schools, Huang Yinyue found a blank paper crane among the others.
She had a hunch it was An Li's. When she pressed him about it, he lied and said, "Maybe I missed one."
That unwritten paper crane became the one secret from our youth that never managed to take flight.
Years later, her wedding invitation called me "a witness to my youth."
I didn't go. I only sent back a pair of plane-leaf bookmarks.
Later still, I became a screenwriter. Everything I wrote was about unspoken affection and farewells foreseen. Everyone said I was best at writing regrets.
But no one knew my finest screenplay was a silent drama about her, one I hadn't dared to write a single word of when I was seventeen.
