Sitting on the flight from Los Angeles to Shanghai, she couldn't help but think: If she could do it all over again one day, she didn't know whether she would choose this way again. Leave him, right? Is it wrong? She still doesn't know, but there seems to be a scab growing deep in her heart that can't be peeled off, and she doesn't want to lift it because she can't be sure it has healed, or that it will still be bloody when she lifts it. She doesn't have the courage. All she knew was that, at that moment, she had to leave. But why come back now? Why? If one day he could start over again and he could understand a little more about her thoughts, would she not leave? To this day he still thinks back to her from time to time when she left. He was shocked and couldn't believe it, but she spoke too calmly, as if she was talking about something that had nothing to do with her. She has always been vivid and bright in his heart. He never thought that she would have such a cold and decisive expression on her face. Could it be that he didn't understand her well enough in the first place. What's the use of thinking so much, she has already left and is living the life she longs for, and will not come back again, even though this house seems to be the same as when she was there, unchanged.