My Changan is a different person. She didn't seem to be afraid of the cold. No matter how cold the weather was, she always wore a simple black sweater, jeans and a warm-looking gray wool coat. She put her hands in her pockets and lowered her head slightly. Her bangs covered her picturesque eyebrows, leaving only the straight bridge of her nose and the cigarette hanging on her lips. As soon as I recalled it, the surroundings were all gray, like a black and white painting. Only the cigarette in her mouth was glowing, and the orange light could light up the whole painting in an instant. Chang'an, my Chang'an, she is tall and thin, leaning on the bus sign not far from my company, holding a cigarette and waiting for me to get off work. She was waiting to take me home.
Intention: Tell me, does love make people forget or never forget it?