In 2005, in a dilapidated train station filled with smoke, there was a fat man with big ears diagonally in front of him, talking on the phone and spitting on the ground; sitting on a rusty bench with peeling paint, a mother lowered her head to comfort her crying child, her eyes full of exhaustion; a white-haired grandma with a stooped back, carefully pushed the grandpa wearing a saliva towel through the crowd.
I sent him to Beijing, and he said that there was Tiananmen there, and the sun would shine on the national flag on time every morning, bringing endless hope to life.
He said he was going to have a break, and he was leaving me.
I turned around and saw that he was still standing there, watching me go away. I felt sour and sad in my heart. I smiled at him and waved goodbye: "Come in quickly. See you later."
But he didn't respond to me, didn't wave to me, as if he was suppressing something, his mouth was pursed into a straight line. He didn't smile, he just stood there stubbornly, the tallest person in the crowd.
In 10 years, we passed each other on the street in the hot summer, and the warm liquid washed my face. The sweat and tears were salty and difficult to distinguish.
I suddenly remembered the piece of paper I asked the police officer to hand to him when he was at the police station. It contained the harshest words I have ever said in my life: Do you admit it? In fact, we were just seeing each other off for a short time.
Purpose: Cherish life and stay away from drugs