"Twenty Minutes"
In the summer when she turned eighteen, Lou Shiru made her last phone call to Yan Yu at the airport.
Eight forty-five. She said: "Brother, I'm going abroad." The chair on the other end of the phone scraped the floor, then there was a commotion, and then there was a busy signal of being hung up. She stood at the security checkpoint and waited for a long time, but he didn't come.
When the plane took off, she received a WeChat message from him, four words: "Bon voyage." She typed the word "good" above the clouds, and the red dot bounced back - no signal.
From the floor-to-ceiling windows of Melbourne Airport, Yan Eucalyptus saw a plane pushing out from the runway through the glass. I don't know if it's the one she was sitting on. His makeup was only half on, his jacket was on inside out, and his collar was crooked to one side. He opened the countdown calendar on his phone. The title was two words: "Pick her up."
Seven years. He didn't know if he could wait, or if she would come back.
But at the riverside in midsummer a year ago, when the fragrance of magnolia burst into her nasal cavity, none of them thought that this day would come.
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A story about missing and waiting.
Seven years ago, she looked back and saw him for the first time under a streetlight; seven years later, she deleted unsent messages at an altitude of 30,000 feet. Separated between the gray-blue sky of Melbourne and the hot summer of Chengdu.
He always only gave her four words.
She kept waiting for him to say more.
But some distances cannot be bridged by "liking". Such as airport security checkpoints. Such as night and day spanning two hemispheres. For example, the sentence she couldn't say: "Will I still like you in seven years?"
And he didn't know yet that the sentence she deleted actually said: "Wait until I come back."
Intention: Sometimes, waiting will tell us the real answer