When I threw my phone out in the New Year, the folding screen I had just bought a month ago bounced three times on the ground and shattered into pieces.
He doesn't care.
At this moment, he was sitting on the floor of his living room, with his back leaning against the sofa and seven empty wine bottles in front of him. The white and red drinks were mixed together, and my head hurt so much that it felt like it was going to explode, but my brain was very clear--so clear that I could replay this afternoon's scenes in my mind frame by frame.
Su Qing stood at the door of the building of the Qin Group, wearing the off-white windbreaker that he had chosen personally. Standing next to him was a man with oily hair and a pink face, who was Qin Group's top manager Wang Zhe. Su Qing smiled at him, that smile was too familiar to him. He had taken her with her for three years, and he knew every expression of hers. That smile means: I'm sorry, but I can't help it.
