The dark blue notebook in Shen Zhiwei's hand has been written for four years, and every page records the time, habits and expressions of the same person. She remembered the pace at which he ran, the corners of his mouth tilted to the left when he smiled, and the rhythm of the soles of his shoes as he walked down the corridor.
She stood in line a meter behind him and smelled the scent of laundry detergent on his coat. She thought that as long as she remembered enough, she would be able to appear exactly when he needed her.
Then she did. He began to take the initiative to talk to her, asked her to go to the library, and walked up to her when they were in groups and said, "We are in a group."
Later, a well-matched girl came to his side, and he chose the more rational path.
Shen Zhiwei didn't ask him why or go to him to explain. She wrote four words on the last page of the notebook and locked the notebook in the drawer. She spent her time on the project, running data, making reports, and changed from a bystander in the corner to a person standing on the stage.
Gu Chengze found that notebook when he was sorting out materials half a year later. Hundreds of pages of neat handwriting, each line saying the same thing.
He closed the book and leaned against the filing cabinet, pinching the corners of the pages with his fingers and not moving for a long time.
He finally knew she liked him.
"What's your relationship?"
He glanced at her not far away: "I'm getting to know her again."
Intention: Love is not self-depletion, but self-fulfillment.
