Nanbin Road

Lin Zhao was twenty-six years old and fled back to Chongqing from Beijing. His savings were at the bottom, his job was ruined, and his life was like the topography of Chongqing where he could not find the north. Shen Du was twenty-five years old and was painting on Nanbin Road. He didn't sell paintings and didn't like to talk. He handed a roasted sweet potato to a strange girl for eight yuan. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and bumped into each other in the most embarrassing way. One is an expired Beipiao who has been chewed up and spat out by life, and the other is a street painter who lives his life as an island. The two of them were separated by an easel, one painted and the other looked at it, but neither of them said they liked it first. Because at this age, liking someone is too luxurious. Rent will go up, parents will grow old, and the number in your bank account will go back to zero. The winter in Chongqing is very long, the wind on Nanbin Road is very cold, and the roasted sweet potatoes cannot be eaten when they are cold. They both knew it: this relationship would end sooner or later. But I still show up at the same place on time every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. There is fog on the river, there are boats in the fog, and there are lights on the boats. The light is on at night. I don't know how long it will stay on, but it is on at the moment. This is a countdown to love. There is no grand confession, no life-and-death entanglement. There are just two extremely ordinary people, awkwardly approaching each other in a magical city. Like two ginkgo trees in winter, all their leaves have fallen off, but their roots are quietly entangled under the soil. Did you know? Some things are destined not to stay. But you can remember it.