At the headquarters of Moda magazine.
For a fashion monthly, the most important issues of the year are, aside from the coveted September and October editions, the March season-opening issue. Every March, major fashion houses compete fiercely to secure advertising placements, hoping to gain an early advantage in the year’s spring/summer luxury market. For Moda, March also marks the anniversary of its Chinese edition’s launch, lending the issue an added layer of commemorative significance. As a result, the importance of selecting its cover star hardly needed stating.
The silver elevator descended from the editor-in-chief’s office to the floor housing the styling rooms and photography studios. Editor-in-chief Feng Xingxue, dressed in a runway look from Joysilly that radiated the lush vitality of spring and summer, swept into the makeup room. Her brisk, ever-hurried stride sent the hem of her dress fluttering behind her, and she truly seemed like a warm spring breeze gliding into the bustling workspace.
Inside the makeup room, fold-out makeup cases stood open in multiple tiers, crammed with every conceivable cosmetic, their colors exploding across the trays like an artist’s palette. On the power strips, over a dozen black electrical cords snaked and tangled together, connecting an assortment of hairdryers, straighteners, curling irons, and styling tools scattered across the dressing stations. Though the room measured barely twenty-odd square meters, it somehow held five or six makeup artists and their assistants, all working at once.
The industry’s top fashion photographer stood nearby with his arms folded, speaking quietly with the magazine’s fashion director. Although the shoot concept had long since been approved by all three parties – the brand, the magazine, and the cover star – they still needed to exchange ideas over the countless small adjustments that inevitably arose on set.
Feng Xingxue swept her gaze around the room before heading straight toward Ying Yin.
“I heard from Tiwen that you’ve been under the weather lately,” she said, resting both hands warmly on Ying Yin’s shoulders. Leaning down, she met Ying Yin’s eyes through the reflection in the mirror. “I even told her that if you weren’t feeling up to it, we could postpone the shoot. How are you feeling today?”
Ying Yin’s makeup was only halfway finished. Beneath the brilliant vanity lights, it appeared effortlessly sheer and luminous. In reality, however, three layers of foundation had been painstakingly applied to achieve that flawless finish. The heavy cosmetic mask concealed her true complexion so completely that no one could tell what color her face really was beneath it.
She gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment. Neither distant nor particularly warm, she subtly shifted her gaze, avoiding eye contact with Feng Xingxue in the mirror.
“I’m fine. Tiwen’s just worrying too much.”
As she spoke, she unconsciously rotated the sapphire ring on her finger.
People in the fashion industry all had exceptionally sharp eyes. Feng Xingxue herself had once been a jewelry editor at one of the top fashion magazines, and with a single glance she recognized the ring’s provenance. Along with that recognition came a mental string of zeros – the kind attached to its price tag. It was the first time she’d seen Ying Yin wearing it, but wisely, she didn’t ask any questions.
No actress in the entertainment industry would be foolish enough to spend tens of millions on a piece of jewelry with her own money. Feng Xingxue understood that whoever – and whatever – lay behind this ring belonged to a realm well beyond the limits of idle gossip.
After exchanging a few pleasantries with Ying Yin, Feng Xingxue finally made her way over to Zhang Chengwan.
At the last fashion gala, Zhang Chengwan’s attempt to steal the finale spot had nearly caused a live broadcast mishap. It had also coincided with the critical period when Feng Xingxue was renewing her contract with Moda and being appointed Assistant President for the magazine’s China division. Feng still harbored resentment over the incident, but her smile remained as warm and pleasant as a spring breeze.
“I heard you’ve sorted out that scandal over the health supplement you endorsed?” she asked.
Everyone in the room pricked up their ears. Even the photographer and the fashion director stopped talking.
Zhang Chengwan nearly ground her teeth to pieces, but she still managed to smile and thank Feng Xingxue for her concern.
“Counterfeit brands may pay well,” Feng Xingxue continued with a smile, “but you’re a Best Actress. No matter how much money they offer, if something goes wrong, doesn’t the blame all fall on you? After this incident, Greta even called specifically to check in.” She patted Zhang Chengwan’s shoulder with deliberate significance. “If you ask me, Greta just doesn’t understand. Your reputation and public recognition here in China are second to none. A little knockoff health supplement – how could something like that possibly lower someone of your stature?”
Her words were a masterclass in veiled insults – ostensibly praising Zhang Chengwan while mocking her at every turn. At the same time, she subtly implied that she had put in a good word for Zhang Chengwan with the brand. Zhang Chengwan was seething but had nowhere to vent her anger. The A-list actress, who was normally so haughty and domineering, suddenly found herself swallowing her pride and yielding to Feng Xingxue.
The Italian luxury fashion house Greta was the title sponsor of this cover shoot. Zhang Chengwan was the brand’s global ambassador across all product lines, while Ying Yin served only as its fragrance ambassador.
Plans for a March cover had to be finalized at least three months in advance. At the time, booking the two actresses together had essentially been a buy one, get one free arrangement. The magazine got the publicity of featuring two Best Actress winners on one cover, but Ying Yin had been the “free extra.”
Now, however, the situation had changed. Both the brand and the magazine had made their position clear:
Ying Yin was now the main star of the shoot.
Ying Yin had never imagined that stepping aboard a yacht just once would produce such a lasting ripple effect. Yet the person who had brought her onto that yacht was no longer by her side.
Once the first round of styling was complete, the entire team moved into the photography studio. Ying Yin removed the sapphire ring from her finger and handed it to Junyi for safekeeping.
With two Best Actress winners sharing the cover, producing a striking magazine shoot was second nature. Feng Xingxue personally oversaw the set. She had originally been worried about Ying Yin’s condition, but judging from the live images appearing on the monitor, Ying Yin was performing even better than Zhang Chengwan.
Before changing into their looks for the inside editorial spread, the crew broke for tea.
After dismissing everyone else, Zhang Chengwan slowly stirred the half-melted skim milk into her coffee before speaking of her own accord.
“It was just a problem with one endorsement. Those foreigners really do make a fuss over nothing.”
Ying Yin seemed slow to respond, as though she were about to fall asleep. Several seconds after Zhang Chengwan finished speaking, she gave a quiet “Mm” in acknowledgment. After another pause, she seemed to remember something and asked, “You’ve always been careful about the endorsements you take. Did Zeng Meng agree to this one too?”
Zeng Meng was himself a well-known rich heir. Although there had long been rumors in entertainment circles that his father had built the family’s fortune by acting as a powerful intermediary in celebrity gossip rankings, the Zeng family’s wealth was still estimated in the tens of billions of yuan. On a small offshore island in Dong Province, their family-owned resort occupied thousands of mu of land, earning the island the nickname “Little Zeng Island.”
Zhang Chengwan’s expression stiffened.
What was the point of having impeccable prestige? In the end, it was all intangible.
The health supplement company had offered her forty million yuan a year. She hadn’t wanted to take the deal, but Zeng Meng had coaxed and persuaded her into accepting it. She had never expected the scandal to break so quickly. It had been less than two months since the multimedia advertisements had begun appearing in elevator displays before damaging reports about the brand surfaced.
Zhang Chengwan had always enjoyed excellent relationships with the major luxury brands, but as soon as the scandal climbed the trending charts, Zhao Manman tactfully informed her that – for the time being – she would no longer be able to wear the haute couture pieces reserved for her at the two year-end events.
“Which ones can’t you wear?”
“All of them.”
She couldn’t afford to embarrass herself. Zhang Chengwan paid three million out of her own pocket and, having no choice but to pick on the softer targets, bought two pieces of vintage haute couture from brands she had never worked with before.
“Zeng Meng didn’t agree to it. You know what he’s like – he’s very much a traditional male chauvinist. He’s always telling me that I don’t need to put myself out there in the entertainment industry anymore,” Zhang Chengwan said, clutching her coffee cup tighter, though her tone remained thoroughly unconcerned. “But marrying well is one thing. No matter how good your marriage is, you still need to earn some money of your own to feel secure. If you ever get the chance to marry into that kind of family in the future, remember this.”
They had their own euphemism for it: among women in their circle, marrying into a wealthy and powerful family was referred to as “marrying in”. It was both discreet and remarkably accurate.
Ying Yin smiled. Whether she had taken those words to heart or not was impossible to tell.
Zhang Chengwan glanced at her. Perhaps afraid that Ying Yin did not believe her, she abruptly changed the subject in a somewhat stiff manner.
“But then again, wealthy men marrying women of status is a necessity too. Don’t be fooled by how rich Zeng Meng is – when he tried to invite Shang Shao out, he couldn’t even get an appointment. Later, when he heard that I was his fiancée, he actually took the initiative to send someone over with an invitation, asking us to come have tea.”
Zeng Meng was currently negotiating an overseas business deal. The Shangyu Group was an upstream partner in the industry chain – not directly involved, but even a few favorable words from them would help the Zeng family secure the contract. Originally, Zeng Meng had not dared to rashly disturb Shang Shao. But after hearing that the young master had recently been ill and was recuperating at home, he found the perfect excuse to pay a visit.
Zeng Meng had asked an intermediary to arrange a meeting once, only to have the request politely declined. He assumed there was no chance.
What he never expected was that, two days later, Shang Shao’s personal butler would personally call and ask whether Zhang Chengwan was his fiancée.
“Yes, they had been engaged for a long time. The only thing left was the wedding.”
Later, the butler used a very tactful phrasing, saying that the eldest young master was a fan of Miss Zhang’s films and that, if it was convenient, he would like to invite Mr. and Mrs. Zeng to the Shang residence for a casual visit. To show their sincerity, they sent over a formal invitation that very evening.
That night, Zeng Meng massaged Zhang Chengwan’s shoulders while praising her, saying that she truly deserved to be the pride and glory of Chinese cinema.
Zhang Chengwan left out many of these details. She only said that Zeng Meng had benefited from her fame, proving that celebrity status was still a valuable asset after all. She was so pleased with herself that she failed to notice the brief stiffness that crossed Ying Yin’s expression.
“Then… did you go?” Ying Yin asked softly, her eyes lowered.
“Not yet. The day after tomorrow.” Zhang Chengwan adjusted her hair. Seeing Ying Yin lost in thought, she assumed she was tempted and sincerely advised her, “Forget it. Someone like him isn’t someone we can aspire to marry. Setting your sights on him would only be asking for trouble.”
Ying Yin nodded, still wearing that quiet, composed expression with her gaze lowered. “You’re right.”
“I wonder if he’s easy to get along with.” Zhang Chengwan murmured to herself. “Zeng Meng has been nervous for days. He couldn’t even pick out a tie.”
“He likes green.”
“How do you know that?” Zhang Chengwan looked at her in surprise.
“I heard it somewhere.”
Zhang Chengwan didn’t doubt her at all, because Ying Yin was famous for being an expert on wealthy families. She knew the preferences of all those heirs and young masters like the back of her hand.
And yet, the person she had researched most thoroughly was also the one who, to this day, had never dated anyone.
People in the industry said she was “waiting for the right price.”
They were not even willing to say that she was simply “keeping herself pure,” because everyone knew the real reason:
She loved money.
“What else?” Zhang Chengwan continued asking.
He liked the sea. He liked sailing boats, and he liked kayaking in the early morning. He liked philosophy; he liked Heidegger and Lacan. Yet recently, the book sitting in the center console of his car was still Hegel.
He loved animals. With his own money, he had done many things beneficial to marine conservation and wildlife rescue. When he stood in nature, that was when he was at his most relaxed and happiest.
He had once invited her to listen to the rain.
Deep in the forest, that tall silver Land Rover had its side awning extended into a makeshift shelter. Raindrops tapped against the waterproof canvas, and everything was quiet. He held her in his arms, wearing his glasses, one arm wrapped around her while the other held open a book, calmly turning the pages.
She admired and respected his ability to focus. Wrapped in a blanket, she fell asleep listening to the sound of his heartbeat and the rain.
At night, the rain stopped. The moisture in the forest turned into mist, while the sky became clear, still, and luminous. The Milky Way hung upside down across the heavens. Occasionally, the sharp crack of a dead branch snapping and falling from the treetops echoed through the woods, creating a completely different world from the thunderous downpour of the day.
Ying Yin knew so many, many things that he liked.
She knew he liked the number three – because of his philosophy that “things should not be done more than three times,” because of the saying “I examine myself three times a day”; and because of his birthday.
But she still didn’t know exactly which month and which third day his birthday fell on.
“That’s all.” Ying Yin smiled at Zhang Chengwan. “He’s very hard to figure out. He doesn’t like letting other people know what he likes.”
“Serving beside a ruler is like accompanying a tiger,” Zhang Chengwan said, raising her brows. “No wonder he’s stayed single until now.”
Her eyes felt hot.
He’s not like that, Ying Yin wanted to say.
He’s a truly, truly good person. It’s just that he treats both others and himself with such care and importance that it makes him seem out of place among everyone else.
Her eyes turned red. But her eye makeup was so heavy – full of the vivid, delicate beauty of spring – that the damp redness only seemed fitting for the season.
The shoot continued until evening. Although everyone was exhausted, Feng Xingxue was very satisfied. At the very least, securing Greta’s advertising renewal for the second half of the year was practically guaranteed.
As they were nearing wrap, the makeup room looked as though it had been through a battle. Cheng Junyi searched everywhere but simply could not find the ring.
The ring had been placed in a compartment of her personal handbag. She had only taken it off because the air conditioning in the room was too warm and had briefly stepped away from everyone to remove a layer of clothing. She had no idea when it had disappeared – she couldn’t even begin to trace where she might have lost it.
“I put it right here…” Junyi muttered as she rummaged through piles upon piles of clothing.
“Could it be that an intern took the jewelry back and accidentally brought it along without noticing?” the editor responsible for coordinating the shoot suggested, while calling the assistants under her supervision.
The response from the other end was that the brand had already checked the items in person, and there was no extra ring among them.
“It couldn’t possibly be lost.” Junyi’s face had flushed an unnatural red, and sweat beaded on her forehead.
When Feng Xingxue heard what had happened, she called everyone who had entered or left the makeup room and photography studio back in and questioned them one by one. The commotion had become so large that when Ying Yin came out after washing her face, she immediately understood what had happened.
“Forget it,” she said.
“But that was…” Junyi began, opening her mouth.
“It’s fine. Don’t cry.”
Ying Yin picked up her coat and spoke calmly. “Let’s go. We’re going to eat hot pot.”
Junyi wiped her eyes forcefully with her sleeve.
But she refused to leave.
She searched from evening until eight, nine, ten o’clock. The magazine office gradually emptied out, and even the staff members who had stayed behind to accompany her eventually left.
The lights in the building went out floor by floor. Only the photography studio and the makeup room remained brightly lit.
How could it not be found?
Junyi refused to believe it. She refused to believe that fate could be so cruel to Ying Yin.
She searched until midnight.
And finally, the blue gleam of the sapphire fell out from the folds of a dress.
Junyi clutched the ring tightly in both hands. She knelt beside the sofa, tilting her head back and taking a deep breath as if she had just survived a disaster, tears welling in her eyes.
When they went downstairs, she was about to call a taxi, but then she saw Ying Yin’s car parked right outside the main entrance. She walked over to it. Inside, the dim yellow interior light was on, and the person inside was still awake.
Junyi passed the ring through the lowered car window without saying a word.
The wind blew parallel to the half-lowered window. She watched as Ying Yin took the ring from her hand and lowered her eyes, staring at it intently.
A long time passed before the tears finally fell.
After even longer, her shoulders began to tremble, and she finally collapsed forward onto the steering wheel, breaking into loud sobs.
“But Junyi… I can’t find him anymore…” she said between broken breaths. “I… I can’t find him anymore…”
This was the first time since returning from the airport that Cheng Junyi had seen Ying Yin cry.
She stood beside the car in the depths of the night, yet it felt as though she had been struck and carried far away by a wave. That sense of distance was the same as the two years she had spent by Ying Yin’s side – she had never been able to truly reach her, not even by the slightest amount. Sometimes, she even wondered whether her companionship had meant anything at all.
Two days later, Zhang Chengwan accompanied her fiancé, Zeng Meng, to Shang Shao’s seaside estate.
This was the first time the house had ever received outside guests. Even someone like Zeng Meng, a wealthy young heir accustomed to seeing grand things, was left completely stunned as they drove in. It was only when they finally reached the end of the road that he remembered to swallow.
The land alone was worth seven billion. And that was already the discounted price Chen Youhan had given him out of friendship. Yet this was merely one of Shang Shao’s private residences – a place where he stayed temporarily.
Once they arrived at the house, servants first escorted them to the tea room. Butler Lin Cunkang was waiting there. He inclined his head apologetically. “Please wait a moment. Mr. Shang will be here shortly.”
Zeng Meng immediately said that they were the ones who had arrived too early.
Five minutes later, Zhang Chengwan finally met the man they had long dreamed of seeing.
As he walked in, his figure gradually emerged from the backlight and came into focus in Zhang Chengwan’s eyes. He was very tall, yet he did not give off a sense of bulk or imposing size. Rather, he was slender and refined. Combined with his quiet expression and elegant manner, he made people feel as though he had been born at a distance from everyone else.
Zhang Chengwan could tell that he was thinner than he had been at that banquet.
Strangely enough, Zeng Meng was around the same age as him, perhaps only one or two years apart. Yet standing before him, Zeng Meng – with all his privilege and comfortable upbringing – suddenly appeared so frivolous and lacking in composure, almost like a child.
Men could not withstand comparison. Once compared, Zhang Chengwan found herself feeling ashamed of her own inadequacy.
He was even a fan of mine.
The thought that he might see the other half of her – the embarrassing, unimpressive side she usually kept hidden – made the shame pile up like stones on her chest, leaving her unable to breathe.
It would only be after she had left the estate and traveled far enough away that Zhang Chengwan would finally come to her senses.
It was not that Zeng Meng was unimpressive. Nor was it that she, one of the entertainment industry’s top actresses, had been narrow-minded or inexperienced.
It was simply that this person stood far beyond the height she could ever reach.
Even if she stood on tiptoe and lifted her head, all she could see were the steps beneath his feet. She could not even catch a glimpse of the tips of his shoes.
Lin Cunkang introduced the guests to Shang Shao one by one.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
He extended his hand and spoke briefly, his voice carrying the clear, resonant quality of struck metal.
Zeng Meng shook his hand and noticed that his fingertips were cold. Just as the rumors had said, he truly was someone suffering from illness.
Once they sat down to drink tea, it would have been inappropriate to immediately bring up what they wanted. Zeng Meng was clever enough to steer the conversation toward Zhang Chengwan – her films, her awards, and the interesting stories she had from filming.
“I heard…” The man held his teacup, his eyes lowered, and asked without any discernible emotion, “Miss Zhang has a magazine feature coming out recently.”
This was a very specific detail, the kind that only fans would pay attention to. Zhang Chengwan was flattered; her eyes even brightened.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s the cover of Moda‘s season-opening issue for this year.”
“Already finished shooting?”
“Yes, it’s finished.”
“Is magazine photography work very tedious?” he asked casually. Perhaps because of his illness, his voice carried a faint weariness and huskiness.
“Compared to making films, of course it’s not as interesting. But this time I was shooting with Ying Yin as well, so we chatted and laughed quite a bit.”
“Chatted and laughed?”
He raised his eyes, momentarily startled.
“Mm.”
No one could tell what had crossed his mind. On his unreadable face, where emotions were usually impossible to detect, a brief moment of distraction flashed by.
“That’s good too.” Shang Shao nodded and set down his cup.
Zhang Chengwan did not understand what he meant by “that’s good too,” but she continued the conversation, afraid of letting the atmosphere fall silent.
“You still remember her?” she asked. “At the banquet last time, she was your companion for half the evening. Later, she wasn’t feeling well, so she never got to dance with you.”
Shang Shao gave a slight nod. On his usually quiet face, a fleeting trace of gentleness appeared. “I got lost. She was kind enough to help me.”
“She’s a very interesting person too. If there’s a chance, I should introduce her to you,” Zhang Chengwan said intelligently, reading his reaction.
“No need.” As he said this, he fell silent for a moment before asking, “Would you mind if I smoke?”
The view here was wide open, and the sea breeze flowing through the room carried the smoke away quickly. Shang Shao smoked, but after only a few puffs, he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead and lowered his eyes, revealing an exhaustion so deep that his mind seemed completely elsewhere.
The meeting lasted no more than half an hour.
When Zeng Meng and the others left, they were quite uneasy, feeling that they had not performed well. It was not until that evening, when he received a call from Lin Cunkang telling him that the piece of land in Africa should be developed properly, that he finally felt relieved.
Shang Qingye had suspended him from his position. In truth, he should have taken the opportunity to properly rest and relax. At the very least, he had not had days like these since he was twenty years old.
But Shang Shao could not sleep.
The principles of “I examine myself three times a day” and “things should not be done more than three times” had both become meaningless. He no longer knew how many cigarettes he smoked each day. When he was not sitting silently in the whale shark aquarium, he was in the study practicing calligraphy.
One day after dinner, Wen Youyi suddenly sent him a video.
It was a recording of him at ten years old. He was dressed in riding clothes, wearing riding boots and a black helmet, sitting atop a small black pony. A diamond-shaped patch of white marked the center of the pony’s forehead, and he had named it Black.
He was still young, but he was already extremely serious and composed. Guided by the riding instructor, he was training Black to jump over tiny, low hurdles.
“Grandpa filmed this for you,” Wen Youyi said in a voice message.
Shang Shao watched the video from beginning to end. He reached out and gently touched Black’s forehead through the screen.
Wen Youyi said, “These past two days, I keep feeling a heaviness in my chest. I find myself spacing out while reading. But everyone around me is doing perfectly fine. Is it you who’s not doing well?”
“I’m fine.” He replied to his mother, “Everything is fine.”
After Wen Youyi said goodnight, half an hour passed. Clearly unable to fall asleep, she sent another text: [A-Shao, when you were little, it seemed like you knew better than you do now how to be happy.]
When he finally stepped outside, he realized that the moon was exceptionally bright that night, like Christmas Eve.
Rich had fallen asleep standing up. Its eyes were half-closed, and the sound of footsteps startled it awake.
It obediently allowed itself to be led out of the stable. After running around beneath the moonlight for a while, its hooves making soft clip-clop sounds, it turned back to look at him.
He was unhappy again, making it run for nothing.
Having come so far to a foreign land, the little horse seemed to have been forced to grow up as well. There was a kind of innocent calmness in its eyes now. It was no longer carefree and mischievously silly, but had learned to run back to him and press its head into his palm.
When the man pulled it into his arms, Rich remained completely still.
After a while, it felt a warm dampness against its neck.
It hated the feeling of getting wet, but it was sensible enough not to shake its head.
A few days later, Zhuang Tiwen brought him news that Ying Yin had joined the production team.
Work was work, and feelings were feelings. Although Tiwen knew they had broken up, she only struggled with it and felt regretful for a while. She followed Ying Yin onto the set and took some behind-the-scenes photos for Shang Shao.
“It’s freezing cold and covered in snow here.”
“She is afraid of the cold.”
“I know. I prepared a heated blanket and an oil-filled radiator for her.”
An oil-filled radiator was such an ordinary, practical household item that Junyi had prepared it, of course. It had fascinated Tiwen – the sheltered young lady from the south – for quite some time.
Tiwen gave Shang Shao the address of the filming location. “If… if by any chance… you have time.”
“Thank you.”
He had written her a letter, put a stamp on it, and asked Lin Cunkang to mail it out.
Only, on the envelope, he had naturally and unconsciously written the wrong house number.
I spent the entire night unable to sleep, because I was thinking of you.
That night, I dreamed that you came to me and asked for my help. I was so happy. Yet somehow, I did not handle it well enough. Before I could finish what I wanted to do for you, I woke up.
The dream was scattered and chaotic. Somehow, I found myself back on the plane to Germany. You were still as stubborn as ever, unwilling to say the words that would ask me to stay, unwilling to reach out for me.
Your pride has always been something I love, and something I fear.
I fear that even when life becomes unbearably difficult, you will still refuse to turn to me. I fear that the hands I have spent so long preparing to hold you will never have the chance to catch you.
Rich has finally grown accustomed to its new feed. It eats so happily now. When you finish filming, I want to invite you to come and see it.
But this excuse has never succeeded.
Sometimes I wonder – do you perhaps not like him at all? Have I ever given you something that you truly loved?
After thinking about it again and again, the only answer I can find is that bouquet of flowers I brought you in Germany, when I went to apologize.
You told me that it was the first time you had ever received flowers from a man.
You never knew that those words felt more like a gift you had given me.
I am not someone who knows how to express my feelings. Yet because of that one sentence, I carried a quiet happiness in my heart for such a long time.
I am someone who even needed you to be the one to ask for love first.
When there were no more dreams left to dream, I lay awake night after night, turning over the same question in my mind – how could I express myself better? How could I make you understand everything I have wanted to say?
I dreamed that I said to you, “Give me your whole life.”
When I spoke those words in the dream, the shadows of the trees trembled upon the ground, swaying with the wind.
Only after waking did I realize it was the mahogany tree.
Only after waking did I remember that those were not the words I said that day.
That day, I said, “Let’s stop here.”
And you did not say, “I do.”
You said, “Goodbye.”
Before we meet again, I wish you health and happiness. Only then can you live a long and peaceful life.
I cannot give you happiness. I cannot give you health.
So let our next reunion wait until we are ninety-nine years old.
Before that day comes, promise me this:
Promise me that you will learn how to be happy better than you ever did when you were with me.
The moonlight was bright. “Let me love you.”
Now, he felt that sentence was an ill omen.
The moon would descend. The streetlights would go out. The fireworks would fade away. Looking at flowers in a dream – perhaps it meant that nothing had ever truly been possessed.
On the back of the letter paper, that small sentence was so inconspicuous, like a brief annotation on the story of his entire life:
Just give me a moon that never sets.
