It was a woman wearing a bright orange two-piece dress, holding a rainbow umbrella, and hanging a paper bag in her hand that she carefully protected for fear of getting wet. A pair of white hollow high heels ruthlessly stepped on the ground, causing transparent flowers to bloom on the ground. It was clearly a lily, or at least she hoped it was. On a rainy summer night, the long streets are deserted. The air condenses on every deep breath. The dull pain in my heart was infinitely magnified and extended to every inch of my skin, hair tips, and fingertips, until it became numb.
Many stories fail to move others, and in the end the only one who is moved is themselves. Many stories have no ending, but they are still haunting. Many stories end as soon as they begin, but the period lingers. Many stories are just a story at the beginning, and you are never even the protagonist. It's really nothing to fall out of love, it's really nothing to be hurt, it's really not a big deal, but you are still sad, just sad.
There are many stories that cannot be told, even if there is wine; there are many people that cannot be mentioned, even if they are missed, they cannot be mentioned.