I Allow You to Forget Me

When I was twenty-eight years old, I deleted the wedding invitation, but not the vows I prepared for him. Jiang Yu is the gentlest person I have ever seen, and also the cruelest person in the world. He would cook ginger soup for me at three in the morning, and the night before I put on my wedding dress, he would say, "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I can give you happiness." It's not that I don't love, it's that I love too clearly. Sober enough that even breaking up is as dignified as a farewell ceremony. I thought the story ended there. It wasn't until three years later that we met again in the same ward - he was the attending doctor and I was the patient's family member. There was an extra ring on his ring finger, and there was an extra diagnosis in my medical record that he didn't dare to ask about. This time, what separates us is not misunderstanding, but life and death. But the cruelest thing about fate is not letting you miss it, but letting two people who can no longer talk about love meet again in the countdown. "I'll wait for you this time," he said. "But I don't have time." I laughed. It turns out that the longest confession is not "I love you", but "I allow you to forget me".