They say that a woman's life should have three shores.
Love, work, marriage.
The boy in college clumsily loved her for four years and turned her into a specimen in his youth. But the specimen must be collected, and it must continue to grow.
She fell in love with a man who was already engaged. A marriage contract turned out to be love at first sight, and I realized that some people are born to live in a broken sense of beauty, and are not suitable to piece together a complete daily life.
Across the ocean and the pixels, she fell in love with the physicist in the laboratory. He taught her to calculate celestial trajectories, but he did not teach her that the epidemic could trap all tenderness in a twelve-hour time difference. It turns out that even the most precise formula can't calculate the speed at which thoughts cool down.
She turned back to the ivory tower and stopped for a while beside the professor's podium. He taught her to deconstruct love, and she literally disassembled him into a reference book - after highlighting the key points, it should be closed.
Later, we passed many shores and passed many people.
She landed on the shore that everyone envied and met him on the shore.
Everyone at the wedding said she finally made it to shore. Only when she dreamed back at midnight, she would subconsciously touch the leather-bound diary beside her pillow - the blank page on the last page glowed warmly in the moonlight.
Stability is not the end, but another game that requires more patience.
The wind started to blow outside the window again. She gently pressed the turning page of the book - there were no fish that could not escape, only people who were eaten. Whoever held the pen in his hand was the master of the story.
Concept: Men are seasonings, not necessities. Only by holding the fishing rod in your hands will you not become a fish in love. When you are being fished, you must remember to spit out the bait.