Empty Car

On the first day of the first year of high school, Lu Ye got into a gray chartered car. Nine seats, one trip every morning and evening, 20 minutes. There was a girl sitting by the window with a ponytail and a transparent water glass in her hand. She said her name was Lin tide—Shuangmulin, the tide of the tide. They sat side by side for three years. It's morning. See you tomorrow. The sweet-scented osmanthus blossomed and faded, the orange cat gained weight round and round, and people in the car came and went, except for the two people in the second-to-last row who never changed. From stranger to caring. From caring to side by side. From side by side to separated. This is not a story about who was at fault. No betrayal, no bloodshed, no unforgivable harm. We just met at a certain stage in life, walked a very important road with each other, and then reached the end of that road. We didn't do anything wrong – that's the saddest part. A car. Two people. Seven years. From the same route to the destination.