Love in a Cup of Milk

The third time I fell in love with Shen Qing, I knew I was beyond saving.

I often wonder, as I write this preface with a blank expression and a calm heart, whether I have already laid all my past, all my love, to rest. I smile faintly and pick up the warm milk beside me. I gently blow away its wisps of steam, which seem to have been part of the air all along, quietly blending back into it until they disappear. Just like all my love, I think, and smile. It was born in love as scalding as boiling water, yet could only become steam from that love, rising up and vanishing into the air.

Perhaps no one ever noticed the steam rising from the milk.

And yet that was my love.

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