This is not a novel, this is a documentary report about growth.
There are no perfect answers in the report, only traces of alterations and stains that cannot be wiped off. People always like to ask about the ending, but in my story, there is no perfection or brokenness in the traditional sense, only the silence after the ending.
From the understudy who ran for a second look in the aerobics gym, to the gambler who was willing to destroy the Great Wall for his future in the workplace; from the gentleness of applying ointment to his lover bit by bit with a cotton swab, to the hysterical slap in the face after discovering the betrayal. I have experienced the illusion of "respecting each other as guests", and I have also tasted the desolation of falling apart after "sharing the joys and sorrows".
I once thought that love was possession, that even if you were sick, I would be the only one close to you. Later I realized that love is also a trade-off. When you leave for the sake of food and shelter at the crossroads of life, I am not even qualified to keep you.
I don't ask for sympathy, nor do I expect to be understood. I just want to use my keyboard to type out these passing names and faces. They are not medals that I show off, nor evidence that I have been a scumbag, but lives that I have truly touched.
When I meet them, they are like moths flying into a flame, burning away all my innocence and arrogance. Now I am sitting in front of the window, looking at the lights of the city, and finally learned to put those past at the bottom of the box. I write this not to miss you, but to tell myself who once had nothing but courage: You have been here, you have loved, and you have suffered. That's enough.
Purpose: Use personal experience as a criterion to measure every game of love and survival in youth.