When I was in middle school, I read "The Peony Pavilion" by Tang Xianzu. There is a saying: Love doesn't know where it starts, but it goes deeper and deeper. The living can die, and the dead can live. To be alive but not to die, to be dead but not to be resurrected, is not the result of love.
Where does love come from, and where does hatred come from? The living can die because of it, and the dead can be resurrected by it.
She only remembered that his neighbor would climb up from the balcony of his room to the balcony of her room every night and sit on the swing in front of her room all night.
She only remembered that in that half month, he took away several nights of moonlight, five or six stars, three or four flowers that he accidentally kicked down, and all the years of her life that he had taken away from her.
She only remembered him sitting on the eaves in silence, and there was silence when he raised his head. Under the bright moon and stars, his eyes were brighter than the stars.
She only remembers that there is an emotion that is like peeling off a cocoon, becoming clearer month by month, year by year.
She only remembered the boy who was as bright as a pearl in her memory.
In the years that followed, she pondered over gains and losses before she realized what it meant to be in love without knowing where it started.
He came in the dusk from early morning and gently took away her dusk.
It's not love at first sight, a sudden glimpse in the vast sea of people, nor a late meeting with so many regrets.
Not as much fanfare.
Only being with each other day and night, year after year, is the step by step, deep and shallow connection when we were young.
It's that simple.
This is just a sweet and sentimental little story. You are the day, and I am the night. And you are the morning, and I will accompany you at dusk. Each person knows half of the love.
Two people, no more, no less, just right.