I am thirty-four years old.
Life is just cut into two parts, no more, no less, eight years each.
The first part begins at the age of fifteen. The summer is long, the wind is soft, and the world is small.
When I like someone, I hide it like a piece of candy. I don't dare to say it publicly, but it's so sweet that I can't sleep all night long.
In those eight years, there were no earth-shattering events, no oaths of eternal love, only quietly approaching, slowly falling in love, and being together naturally.
We walked together on the way to school, stayed through evening self-study together, held hands quietly in the classroom together, and thought the future would be bright forever.
Later, they separated quietly, without any quarrel or resentment. They just grew up and went in different directions.
The second paragraph begins at the age of twenty-five, in a big city, in a tired life.
I met another person, stable, gentle and understanding
We dream about tomorrow together, cook together, and support each other late at night.
Those eight years were real life, hugs, companionship, and the urge to spend a lifetime together.
But life is too heavy, the pressure is too long, love is slowly silenced by reality, and in the end we can only let go gently.
Two periods of eight years.
A section as clean as the summer wind.
A night as heavy as winter.
I didn't lose to anyone, and I didn't let anyone down.
I have only loved seriously twice, once for youth and once for life.
And now, they're all over.
Like two books, gently closed.
Purpose: Understanding love through two eight-year relationships