In the summer when he was fourteen, Sang Wan met Shen Xingli at a Model United Nations conference.
One is the artistic soul that perceives the world through sound, soft and warm, like flowers blooming in summer; the other is the medical brain that uses logic to deconstruct life, cold, restrained, like an island with boundaries. They were supposed to be two parallel lines that would never intersect - until late one night, Sang Wan sent out that voice message while suffering from stomach cramps, and Shen Xingli opened her door within four minutes with porridge and medicine.
That night, Sang Wan secretly pressed a kiss on Shen Xingli's dry palm. Shen Xingli did not push her away. From that moment on, their story begins.
From the stunning glimpse at the Model United Nations Conference in junior high school, to the three years of long training in different places in high school; from living in the twin cities where each of them went to pursue their dreams in college, to standing side by side facing family pressure after graduation - it took them eight years to learn one thing:
True love does not need to be spoken all the time.
Shen Xingli's silence is not indifference, it is another language - hidden in the increased temperature of the air conditioner, hidden in the dish that remembers Sang Wan holding two more chopsticks, hidden in the gentle rubbing of his thumb under the table, hidden in the brief notes on the back of each ticket stub arranged in chronological order. Sang Wan "heard" these silences from the beginning. She works with sounds, but what she listens best to is those without sounds.
This is a story about "audible silence".
When you first read it, you may think that the silence is alienation, hesitation, and regret—that it is BE (tragic ending). But when you read the last page, you'll understand: those silences were always love, just "heard" in different ways.
It's not like they haven't experienced ups and downs. The mother's intervention, the suffering of being in a different place, the crisis of trust, the pressure from the family... Every test is like quenching, making this relationship stronger. They learned to show off in the cracks, and to assert their sovereignty in the temperature difference. In the year when resources were cut off, they relied on last-minute rice balls from convenience stores for three days, but they never regretted it.
Because they know: some sounds cannot be heard with ears. Some love doesn't need to be said.
(This book is a true record of the author's personal experience. Let me make it clear: this book does not grant any copyright. Please do not modify, copy or use it in any form.)
Intention: True love does not need to be spoken all the time. When you can understand each other's silence, there is no need for any words between you.