When he saw Ye Zhuocheng again, Shang Wenxin's hair had grown to his waist. She lowered her head to clean the milk tea shop, which was bustling with people; her long black hair cast a gentle catkin-like silhouette on the wall under the setting sun.
"I'm back." He put his hands around her waist, breathed behind her ears, and smelled the scent of milk tea on her body.
"This milk tea fragrance was the agreement we made seven years ago," she sighed and paused, "but now another man has sniffed it... Not you." She looked back at him, her eyes still clear. She is still herself, and the world's vulgarities seem to have no place in her eyes. Maybe he doesn't deserve to have such clear eyes now.
Ye Zhuocheng thought and let go of his hand.
In secular love, we love one person; when we get married, it is often another person.