Fan Qiqi is dead.
The person who told me the news was Wang Yiyan, a person who had always stood between Fan Qiqi and me in high school.
Actually, I am not familiar with Fan Qiqi. I didn't know her well enough that she still owed me thirty-seven yuan—the money for the cup of boba milk tea at the gate of my second year of high school. I kept track of it for twelve years.
She is the kind of girl who is gentle enough to squat in the rain to pick up earthworms, and she is also the eldest sister who knocks out boys' front teeth with one punch. She called my name someone else's, wore my gloves all winter and never returned them, crushed my crush into a thin piece of paper, and stuck it in Neruda's collection of poems.
I never told her.
Ou Shang knew it, Wang Yiyan knew it, everyone in the world knew it, but she didn't know it.
No, maybe she does.
In the poetry book placed under the portrait, she used my favorite pencil to draw a line: "I like that you are silent, as if you disappeared."
Did she do it on purpose?
I'm not sure.
But what I am sure of is that I did not return the thirty-seven yuan to her until she left this world.
He didn't say those three words.
Concept: Unspoken love is complete