At three o'clock in the morning, the screen of her mobile phone was still on. She hesitated for three minutes at the "Good night" in the dialog box, and finally changed it to "Go to bed, you should go to bed early." The other party's immediate reply of "The moon is watching you for me" was followed by a sly smile, like a mint candy dropped into the heart, causing a tingling sensation.
The last message stopped at "That's it," and the dialog box still contained the roasted sweet potato she sent when she lived on campus last winter to say she missed me, and the pixels were a bit blurry.
I used to think that saying "good morning" to each other was more certain than the sunrise, and that the list of things to do together in my favorites would keep growing, until one day I discovered that even "what did I eat today" became a question that needed to be considered.
The day I deleted my contact information, the weather was just as good as the day we first met. The wind blowing through the empty streets was like the warmth she felt on her fingertips when she held my hand for the first time. It turns out that some people can really only accompany you for a certain journey, just like the movie you didn't watch in early winter that year, the goodbyes you didn't say, and us who didn't have time to grow up.
Mission: Love is gender-neutral
