There is no word "social" in her life dictionary.
The convenience store at three o'clock in the morning is her only intersection with the world.
Masks, hats, and two-layer sweatshirts—this is her standard outfit when going out.
Until the man handed her a bottle of milk in a blue package.
He didn't wait for her to thank him, didn't look at her face, or even remember what she looked like.
He only knew: her voice was like the first rain in late autumn, her right foot was a little heavier than her left foot, and she always used her left hand to get milk.
One is an illustrator who has severe social anxiety and has not been out of the neighborhood in three years.
One is an architect who suffers from prosopagnosia and cannot recognize any faces.
Two "abnormal" people, in a convenience store at three in the morning, used silence and milk to piece together a love that is more complete than anyone else's.
It's not healing, it's companionship.
It's not salvation, it's seeing.
It's not "I made you better", but "I want to stay with you even if you are not good".
