Li Wan pushed the wrong door.
The westernmost part of the second floor of Building C. In autumn, the sunshine is golden. A boy was sitting by the window drawing the ginkgo tree, his pencil rustling on the paper. She stood at the door and stared for a long time, until he finished painting, turned around, and glanced at her.
That glance meant nothing, but it started everything.
He later painted her for four years. From the library to Wutong Road, from the sketchbook to the "Four Years" that I painted for four years at the graduation ceremony, there was only one line written on the back: From that day on, all I drew was you. He never said he liked her, but every bit of it.
She was diagnosed with stomach cancer before graduation and broke up on the eve of the art exhibition. He came, on a rainy night, without asking anything, and only left three words. He left at dawn, and Li Xin came to pick her up and fly to the United States. When he chased him to the airport, the plane had already taken off, and he only saw a dispersing cloud of planes.
Three months later she found out she was pregnant. When chemotherapy and miscarriage were being carried out at the same time, she clutched a sketch and the corners of the paper were frayed. Three years later, she returned to China with her daughter, walked into his art exhibition, and saw that the last painting was titled "The Day She Pushed the Door."
She turned to leave and saw him standing at the door of the exhibition hall. He saw the little girl next to her and didn't ask anything.
She didn't say anything either. The daughter looked up and asked her mother why her uncle's eyes were red. She said the wind was too strong.
Some people push the door open, some people close it. Very little was spoken in those years, but it was all written in the paintings, on the paper, and in the gaps of silence.
That's the real story between them. Leave blank.
