You Told Me to Forget You

Six years ago, the osmanthus tree was blooming unbelievably lush. That day, you and I stood beneath it, breathing in the fragrant scent. You gently held me and said, “I want to be with you.”

Six years later, we returned to that place and found that the osmanthus trees had long since been cut down. You sighed, “Some things can never be found again.” I didn’t understand. You looked at me with complete seriousness. After a long while, you gave me your last embrace. “She’s back. Thank you for these six years. Forget me.”

Some things aren’t lost forever. They were never ours to begin with. You told me to forget you. Fine. I wish you safety, but not happiness.