In the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, the warblers were flying and the grass was growing. He spread out his red makeup for ten miles and went to marry his wife.
And she, changed from the previous glamorous red dress, only wore plain white plain clothes without any embellishment, standing on the street corner, watching this grand wedding, silently.
He once said, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. If you had not fallen into the world, you would be famous all over the world.
He once said that the tunes played by your ten fingers are the most beautiful. If your identity were not like this, then these tunes would be recited by everyone.
Later, he said, I have topped the list in high school, and from now on, I may not come to see you often.
Later he said, next month, I will get married. Maybe... I will never look for you again.
Yes, he never promised her anything. Her happiness and anger, her sorrow and joy have nothing to do with him.
She took one last look at his high-spirited back in the distance. This prosperous age of marriage and laughter belonged to them, not to her.
She turned around and left decisively.
He seemed to feel something from a high place. When he slowly looked back, he could only touch her leaving white clothes.
His eyes darkened. Not her. She... Never wears white.
Then he turned around, no longer sentimental.
The long street is full of joy, and the love is determined. Only the red makeup, as bright as blood, spread all over the ground.