Lin Zhiyi was sixteen years old when her parents had an accident. She didn't cry at the funeral because no one saw her cry. Later, Shen Du came, bringing a key and a sentence: "Your father asked me to take care of you."
He lived downstairs and had breakfast ready every day and put it on the table, waiting for her to come down. She was number one in her grade, and he was the youngest teaching assistant in the school—they were two parallel lines, but they were tied together by a custody agreement.
She called him brother, and he told her to study hard. But in her senior year of high school, on her eighteenth birthday, he gave her a lipstick. She held it in her hand and said, "I don't need it. I want to wait until you change your identity and give it to me."
His hands were shaking and he didn't speak.
On the day the college entrance examination ended, she pushed the application form in front of him. My first choice was Beijing, 3,000 kilometers away. He handed over the pen and said, "If you sign it, I'll go." When he picked up the pen, his hand was shaking. Finally I put pen to paper.
The day she left, she didn't look back.
Much later, she found a line of words on the back of the application form, which he added later: "Know your intentions and live a good life." There was also a line of smaller words below - "What I wanted to say that day was actually, don't leave."
But she's gone.
He signed the piece of paper and also signed their ending.
Concept: Sometimes, the person letting go hurts more than the person leaving.