I once went through a very difficult time.

It was a failed relationship experience. Those days turned me from a soft girl expecting love into someone coarse and hard, yet also brave.

I began to understand certain pains better. Through eyes brimming with tears, I saw countless people with the same faces who had suffered threats, intimidation, and cold violence.

Later, I put up a stubborn fight and seemed to finally walk out of the dark room, but in reality, I was split in two. One half lived earnestly, loving every ray of light in this world; this soul was seen by more and more people and received some affection. The other half of me, influenced by the sky, music, weather, tides—frankly speaking, anything—would have that sentence pop into my head: "No one will ever love you again." I believed it. Like suffering from sequelae, I wouldn't fall in love with anyone either.

But someone rashly barged into my life. Thinking back, it's funny; I was in the South, he was in the East. I stayed up late, he slept early. I couldn't wake up once asleep; I never thought about being together. But he adapted to my schedule, patiently listened to the nonsense I spoke when drunk, told me if my cat was gone I still had his, if my junior didn't love me I still had him loving me. Making noodles was his specialty, and so was loving me.

So, with a little bit of bravery and luck, I caught this gift that arrived before spring.

Twenty-four hours after he left Nanning, my life was already in the third year of my twenties. I returned to my original schedule. I began to feel hungry, lonely, and utterly bored late at night. Life became dull to the extreme. In all the time I couldn't sleep, that question I never asked out loud would occasionally pop into my head.

Like that cat that briefly accompanied me, the future between us—visible at a glance—was all too obvious. We wouldn't last; we would separate sooner or later. What's interesting is that we both knew this clearly. That date was like a festival that was bound to arrive, lying across the long, slow years of life.

Raymond Chandler said in "The Long Goodbye": "To say goodbye is to die a little." As for us, saying goodbye once meant getting a little closer to that day.

I was loving this person very hard. Aside from my pure love for him, I lived every day we spent together as if it were the last. I didn't hide my love at all. I wasn't afraid of friends knowing it would end unhappily. To be honest, I wasn't afraid of separation either; I had used long, enduring years to verify that living alone isn't that terrible.

I originally thought the reasons for the inevitable separation would be reality, class, distance, and other such insurmountable words, not a light and airy "I don't love you anymore." But that is the truth, cruel and real.

The first time, I was beaten down by threats and intimidation. I struggled with worry through countless sleepless nights, rebuilding my ruined heart and worldview bit by bit, until I looked no different from a normal person and reached the universal standard of "getting better." But this time, I was soundly taught a lesson by the worldly emotion of "stopping love just like that."

Those sentences repeatedly surfaced in my mind: Why didn't you think about my future at all? How am I supposed to live on? How can I believe in love again? How can I believe I am still worthy of being loved?

In adversity, you reached out a pair of hands to hold mine, then led me to an even more desolate grassland. You never thought about what kind of difficult situation I had walked out of, and what kind of state I was now returning to.

There won't be such a person again who understands this ordinary yet pounding heart of mine. And I don't need such a person; I know that without him, none of my happiness will be missing.

I started rebuilding my ruined heart and worldview bit by bit again. These words I've said countless times appeared again in the sleepless late nights.

When people encounter problems, they always like to ask "why." But not loving—there is no why. I typed these words late at night, feeling a sudden sense of enlightenment, just as free and open-minded as when I wrote "I live in this world, lonely yet meaningful" last year.

How should I put it? It's like a destined tribulation. From this day last year to this moment, it's exactly a full circle of a year. A newly acquainted friend said that before, we liked someone purely; everyone had no desires. Liking someone was just pure liking, real happiness. Now we can't do that. The suffering we've personally experienced always makes people defensive. Once bitten by a snake, the first reaction to encountering love in the future becomes self-defense.

Hearing this, I felt I was done for. I am too sincere. No matter how many difficult days I've been through, I will still take out this heart to show the person I love, and I will still find the end of the sea. No one can save anyone; we each have our own suffering. Ms. Ge Wanyi said so.

March in Nanning, abundant rain, humid and sticky. Fortunately, the spring flowers have bloomed. I started preparing for the second book of my life. The first book was the final assignment for a layout design class; it carried too much of my misfortune, with many dispirited and decadent words. I saved a lot of bright images for the second book, only to find his shadow everywhere—it seems that except for the final decisiveness, I did indeed spend a very happy time.

I remember the chilly Northeast and him re-reading my name with the ending tone turning upwards; I remember him freeing a hand to hold mine while carrying heavy packages; I remember the long words he said sitting in my chair when selecting photos; I also remember the two bowls of noodles, one I finished and one I didn't. The deepest impression was what he said at the beginning: "Love is everywhere, yet vanishes at any time. Love is a process. Coming to an abrupt end, regret, is sometimes also a form of romance."

Then let it end here. Love is everywhere, yet vanishes at any time. And people must always learn to grow up alone.

cr:@巴布朗-