The first time Qi Zhao met Qie Yan was in the advanced mathematics class in the first semester of his freshman year. A figure squeezed in sideways from the back door, a tilted black umbrella, and a cup of milk tea brought along. He didn't know why the taciturn boy opposite him always sat in the fourth row, didn't know why he remembered everything he said, and didn't know what the occasional arc in the corner of his mouth meant.
Twenty-year-old Qi Zhao just felt comfortable staying with him and wanted to stay a little longer.
They ate together, went to evening study together, climbed mountains to see the cherry blossoms together, and sat together in the library until it was cleared. We walked along Wutong Road countless times, changing breakfast restaurants one after another. The distance between the two people shortened from an arm to half an arm, and then to shoulder to shoulder when they shared an umbrella on a rainy day.
But there is always a thin layer of fog in Qie Yan's eyes. He never talks about himself, his family, or his past. When he looked at Qi Zhao, his eyes were focused and restrained, as if he were looking at something easily breakable. That time in the bamboo forest, his fingers held Qi Zhao's index finger for only a few seconds, but Qi Zhao could feel his palms sweating.
Later, Qi Zhao found out that Qi Yan had a photo in his cell phone. The way the person in that photo smiled was very similar to him.
He didn't know anything at that time. I don't know what the person across from me has been enduring from the moment I first saw him in high school math class. I don't know that my face is the shadow of another person left in the world. I don't know that behind that thin layer of fog is a car accident in Lincheng three years ago, and the deepest guilt and pain in Qie Yan's eyes every time he looks at him.
He only knew that to Qie Yan, he was probably not "Qi Zhao" from the beginning.
Purpose: Loving someone should not be based on who they look like.