They all said I was crazy.
Maybe. After all, how could a normal person go to his enemy's empty dilapidated house every day, face the mold stains on the walls and the freezing air, and dial a number over and over again that would never go through?
The phone is full of his photos and videos. I took it before. Now I dare to look carefully, one by one, frame by frame. It was either his forbearing expression after I beat him, or his desperate eyes when I blocked him in the alley, or when he was teased by my followers, he lowered his head and bent his neck in a fragile and stubborn arc.
In none of them did he smile.
I actually didn't even remember the way he smiled. In other words, I never allowed myself to see or remember. I interpreted all of his expressions as hypocritical, cowardly, and deserved.
Now these images have become Lingchi's knife. Every time I look at it, my heart feels like it's been beaten repeatedly with a blunt instrument, making me so painful that I can't breathe. I said "I'm sorry" over and over to his blurred profile on the screen, my voice hoarse like a broken bellows. But what's the use? He couldn't hear it anymore. These three words, so light, were not worth a ten thousandth of what he had endured.
Purpose: Don't wait until the time comes