Confess to Me

At the beginning of spring, the story quietly grows. There were no thunderstorms, only a soft greeting in the morning light, the gentle warmth of the fingertips accidentally touching each other when the examination paper was released, and the silent steps of walking side by side as the sunset passed over the shoulders. She uses sincerity as a needle and hard work as a thread, stitch by stitch to mend the distance from the world; he uses his gaze as a shore and waiting as a boat, quietly turning his heartbeat into a tireless tide in all seasons. Jealousy has long since settled into companionship, and there is no need to say a word of confession, because every "good morning", every time a hand is stretched out to steady her, every time the umbrella tilts naturally towards her in the wind and rain, they all whisper the same feeling. The sycamore leaves fell on the palm of her hand, and the gold-rimmed love letter was slightly curled. It was a love letter sent in autumn and did not need to be opened; she held the veins of the leaves tightly, and also held his warm hand. Meeting my parents is not the end, but two trees growing independently. I finally recognize the same soil, with roots entwined in the darkness and branches stretching together in the light. The lights in the garage are turned off, darkness descends gently, and the embracing bodies become their own light source. Bringing up a baby is not about sacrifice, it is about two hearts watering a new plant together with clumsy piety; it is about still discerning the unquenched starlight in each other's eyes in the gap between diapers and bottles. When the daughter's little hands clenched the jade lock, when the cup of warm milk was delivered silently at three o'clock in the morning, when the morning light flowed through the window lattice, illuminating the broken hair on her forehead and the smile in his eyes. It turned out that the greatest reconciliation was the gentle hand holding in the gap between the storms; the most eternal contract was the lines of poetry written by firewood, rice, oil and salt, and the long flowing water rushed to the distance.