"Are you still in that city?"
Eighteen years later, An Ming used these words to call me back to my college days from a dinner party.
At that time, she was a dance student, and she walked as if she was stepping on a beat that no one else could hear. We had several meals but never started. Today, she is a dance teacher with children, classes, and a life that she cannot let go of; I have a career, a drinking bureau, an old relationship, and a way to deal with everything except intimacy.
She adjusted her classes, took care of her children, and came across the city to Shanghai to see me; I waited outside the door for her to finish class and watched her briefly stand in the light. We recognized each other in the dark, kissed each other at the station, and returned to the old campus to complete the unfinished journey eighteen years ago. She will run for love, and will tell me when I turn love into demands: "My love will not be reduced in price."
But only two weeks after our reunion, I received a dispatch notice. We are left with only two months.
The more I love, the more I am afraid of losing, and the more I am afraid, the more I want to hold on. She spent her whole life practicing beats, but it wasn't until I fell in love with her that I discovered that what I was best at was actually making the wrong beats in love. One
