That night in Barcelona, Shen Qing fell in love with him first.
With blue-grey eyes and high eyebrows, he is a man who is too lazy to attract an audience. She walked around half the banquet hall and said the first thing she said: "Are you Chinese?" He said: "Half."
The third time they met by chance, he saw through her: "You're trying to catch me." She picked up his coffee and took a sip: "Are you taking the bait?"
They were together every night that week. He's fine with everything, but he's holding on too tightly. Looking through her phone to check her whereabouts, she casually complimented the curator, and the collaboration was shelved the next day. Shen Qing felt out of breath. So he left. Six words on the note, replace all contact information.
More than a month later, the B-ultrasound showed "Intrauterine pregnancy approximately 11 weeks+". She sat on the bench in the corridor, counted the dates, folded the list and put it in her pocket.
Three years later, my son pointed to the man by the window of the private restaurant and said, "Mommy, that uncle has the same eyes as mine."
Under the tablecloth, he held her hand and didn't let go for forty-five minutes. After the show ended, there were only two people left. Shen Qing stood high and looked down at him. He said, "I didn't agree to that note."
You don't need your consent to break up. But he waited for three years for the reunion.
