A year ago, Doya stood in front of me for the last time, lit a cigarette, and said she didn't want to live with me. I looked at her lowered right hand, holding the cigarette in a very professional manner, which made her look cool when she was leaving. I still remembered her white and tender legs and the beautiful red sandals on her feet. Next to the shoes was her packed luggage. Given this memory, I must have kept my head down and my spirits down. It was noon, the asphalt road was filled with smoke, and the whole world was shaking before my eyes. The taxi Doya was riding in disappeared at the end of the road, and the noise of tires lingered in my ears. I didn't cry or feel sad. I just felt a little pain in my stomach. I thought I must be hungry, so I turned around to have lunch. At night, I slept soundly.
Later, I heard from others that she seemed to be very busy, which I thought was good. Now her phone number is still in my phone, and she is gone from my life. Once a story ends, a new one can begin, and life continues.
Conception: