Guo Cang squatted under the eaves of the convenience store, holding a half bottle of Erguotou. The phone screen was still on, and the last message was dazzling: "Guo Cang, let's forget it. You can't give me the life I want."
Three years. Just get this in exchange.
He raised his head to drink, and the low-quality alcohol burned his throat. The neon lights of the office buildings in the distance gleamed together, those glamorous figures, those worlds that he couldn't squeeze into even if he tried his best.
