When Shen Nian was thirty, he met eighteen-year-old Chen Yu.
At that time, she was a well-known screenwriter in the industry. She had just ended a five-year relationship and locked herself in a teahouse in Hangzhou to write scripts. She didn't want to see anyone. He was the son of the teahouse owner. He came back to help during the summer vacation after the college entrance examination. He walked in with a longjing and saw her lying on the table crying.
He put down the tea cup, handed over a pack of tissues, and said, "Don't dirty the table."
Shen Nian raised his head, his eyes were red and swollen, his makeup was messy, and he looked at the tall and thin boy in front of him.
He lowered his eyes and looked at her, then said, "When you're done crying, I'll treat you to a piece of Erchuan."
It was July, and Hangzhou was so hot that it could steam people. The air conditioner in the tea room was turned on at full speed. She was wrapped in a shawl and he was wearing a white T-shirt. The two of them looked at each other for three seconds across the tea table.
Later, Shen Nian wrote it into the script: When some people break into your life, they bring the smell of summer and the recklessness of teenagers. You know clearly that you shouldn't, but you still can't help but think that maybe you can.
Maybe.
