When I was six years old, I told my first lie about sour plum candy.
I said: "Sweet."
Later I realized that some love was sour from the beginning - like the light in Mu Fanxing's eyes, like the cheap fragrance of jasmine washing powder, like the cat we didn't have time to raise, or the warm city in the south that we didn't have time to go to.
To protect him, I killed his paranoid brother and sent myself to prison.
The visiting glass was so thick, and he said "I'm waiting for you" every time. But his voice became softer and softer, and the light in his eyes became darker and darker, like a candle that was about to burn out.
Later I found out that during the three years he waited for me, the old scars on his wrists were worn away again and again, and there was a thick pile of medical records written by the psychiatrist. He cut his wrists and swallowed medicine in the bathroom. The water was warm and the blood was red. He only wrote one sentence in his suicide note.
And I died in May when gardenias bloomed, and on the day when "I love you" was most prevalent. They said it was sudden cardiac death, but I knew it wasn't.
I went to the appointment because I was afraid that he would wait too long.
I was afraid that he would be alone in that place where there was no jasmine or gardenia.
It turns out that the ending of silent love is that the two teenagers died in silence in a place where they never met.
One is in the early morning of Valentine's Day in February, and the other is at "520" noon in May.
Separated in the middle is the "future" that we once thought was very close.
And that extra episode called "If" was just the 366th paper star I folded for myself behind bars.
It contains all the mornings, hugs, and cats we never got to have.
Intention: Silent love eventually becomes an unsolvable fate.
