Noise the World to You

When Song Cici was standing aside and hesitating, a young man named Murong ran over and typed for Song Cici: Shall I accompany you? If two people are together, the loss of face will be halved. She nodded. When the rope bounced up, he howled behind him for ten seconds, as unpleasant as a dog whose tail had been stepped on. She couldn't hear it, but the vibration in her back made her smile. Later, he came to the downstairs of her house every day. Bring her pork rib rice from the canteen, wontons bought on the roadside, whistles and plastic bags to teach her to listen to the songs of birds and the sound of water. He talks a lot, but she talks a lot. From then on, every picture she painted showed him - with his mouth open, squatting by the river, clumsily chopping vegetables. I drew one book after another, and on the last page I wrote a few words: I am willing to sit on that train next to you, just drive. He read it three times, holding the book close to his chest without looking up. Then the train left. The windowsills were filled with more and more stones, and there were more and more paintings on the walls. There was a little girl named Mu Ting in the house. Song CiCi held an art exhibition, and the last painting was of the two little people on the bungee jumping platform. On the card next to it, he wrote: She couldn't hear me shout that day, but she said she wasn't afraid anymore by the way I opened my mouth. She added a line: He yelled hard, but she laughed. That's enough.