When Jiang Yao was twenty-five years old, he was sorting out his old things. A brittle note fell out of the sleeve of his school uniform.
Song Zhiyi, I like you.
She didn't remember putting it in afterward. It's been ten years, and the handwriting is blurred and the corners are rough.
She stared blankly at the note for a long time.
Then he opened his phone and clicked into a group of classmates who never spoke.
Someone forwarded the wedding invitation.
Groom: Song Zhiyi.
She folded the note in half, didn't throw it away, and didn't cry.
It's just that that night I dreamed of the eighteen-year-old corridor.
She stood in front of the window, holding the note in her hand.
And he passed her and walked towards another person.
Intention: be