My girlfriend and I fell in love at first sight when we were eighteen. We only had a month together.
Autumn passed into winter, and the migratory birds flew south. She flew to Suzhou and Hangzhou, too.
I waited, I hoped, I watched, and I stopped thinking about it, pretending we'd broken up.
We met three times in ten years.
Eleven years passed in the blink of an eye. We were so close we could see each other on WeChat, yet so far apart that we didn't even notice the instant we liked each other's posts.
I thought this woman was as sweet as her nickname, but even now, I still can't taste that sweetness.
All the memories connected to her are jumbled, proud, and strange. Their pages curl at the edges; some have been torn out and yellowed with age, while one still carries a fresh, fragrant scent.
If loving you means that even after becoming the closest of strangers, the thought of love at first sight still stirs a surging, boneless longing in me, then these eleven years haven't gone to waste.
Sorry, I'm a little slow on the uptake. I'm eleven years late figuring this out.
Theme: The past was all driving rain and fierce winds. Tomorrow will be grand and bright.
