Xu Yang first noticed Song Yuan when he was a freshman in Qixia No. 2 Middle School.
That evening, just after the military training, hundreds of gray-green figures lined up on the playground to listen to the principal's speech. She was taken out of the girls' queue by the grade director and made to stand because she was too engrossed in chatting about a book with the person next to her. She faced all the new students in the school, with her back to the sunset. The girl had a round head and round glasses and stood quietly, as if this lecture had nothing to do with her.
Xu Yang tilted his head. Less than two seconds. But those two seconds trapped him for twelve years.
He learned about her class—right next door to his. He knew that she would lie down by the window every morning to catch up on her sleep. The morning light passed through her eyelashes and broke into countless tiny golden particles. But he didn't go up and say a word. He just passed her window every morning, occasionally tilting his head, occasionally seeing her, sometimes not.
Later she transferred to another school. He went to a school where he missed the high school entrance examination by two points.
Their lives are like two parallel railway tracks, the only intersection is an old book.
Purpose: We can't even find solid enough evidence to prove that those trembling morning lights and intertwined breaths really existed.