One day, I tidied up my wardrobe and saw that it was all white. Winter coats, T-shirts, short sleeves and long trench coats were of different textures and styles, but the colors were dark and light white.
Shoes, backpacks and even watches are the same.
I suddenly realized that time flies, and the past has passed like that, and I can't come back.
When I was young, I often armed myself with black. In the lush years when even sleeping is a luxury, books and papers piled on top of your head are the theme, but pressure can't slow down rebellion. Sixteen or seventeen years old has always been a patent for maverick. The meager and grand ideal is as heavy as the chest, almost suffocating and helpless. I'm so bored that my mind is full of noises and murmurs that look stupid. If you can't shut other people's mouths, lock your own world and don't invade each other.
Black July, black mood. A black suit brings out the best in each other. Indulge in bad temper, concise, ice-like complexion, innate value indifference and arrogance, and keep people away. I don't feel sorry. I can't see the inner struggle of the stung person. On the contrary, it took me many years to understand that the tolerance given by others at that time was the only link to maintain our friendship today, a gift from heaven and a care that should be cherished.
What doesn't match with black July is the sky with light clouds and light winds. And the fresh air in the town. The newly-built teaching building is cold and dark, and nine bright white electric batons are lit all day. During the break, everyone can't wait to go out and dry off the moisture. People like me who stare blankly out of the window every day may die one day.
Only when I go to study on Sunday, when I am tired or confused, will I go out and enjoy the warmth of the sun caressing my back. Few people, quiet, and too empty, that unforgettable loneliness is engraved into the soul, which may never be forgotten in this life. Shocking and inexplicable tears also made me no longer afraid of any loneliness as an adult.
His class is next door, separated by a wall, two completely different worlds. After class, in order to get some air or meet me, he stood in the gap between the front and back doors of the two classes-from my position, I could just see him. Or, in order to sleep or not meet me, he disappeared like a shadow, and the clarity of the door was lost.
One day he went out and I happened to be there. There was no enough reason to dodge, so I had to stand together. His white coat and my white shoes both give off the same soft luster in the bright and scorching sun. I love this coincidence, I love this scene-two teaching buildings next to each other, cutting the sky into a long and narrow band of light. We stood in the light belt, the sun was shining gently, and we stood side by side, each with a halo, just like in a cartoon, so close that we could see tiny hairs on our faces. Irrelevant conversations, laughter from others around, sparse plants, and three treasures and four treasures in the glass on the windowsill are all faint but beautiful backgrounds.
When we were apart, we were so separated that we didn't even say it. Love without fruit is a flower in full bloom in youth, not the most beautiful, but the most fragile, unique and unforgettable. When we remember a person, it is not how excellent that person is, nor how deep that love is. What we miss is only the good or bad self at that time, because being truly loved by a person makes us unique and unparalleled.
At that time, I thought, why are you always justified in front of him? You are allowed to ask anything. Perhaps this is tolerance, I am willing to tolerate, so I can give everything I can without asking for anything in return. After him, anyone who was so kind to me refused. I always think of him inadvertently, and my heart is faintly lost.
Since then, I have been crazy about white. With the growth of age, a lot of black in the wardrobe was eliminated, and white continued to occupy the highlands. I bought a white cotton-padded coat one year, but I didn't feel abrupt in the cold winter, but I was even more out of control.
When we met again, it was still white. I always remember his white coat and white suit, clean and refined. Gradually, I became a woman who loves white desperately. I lost all my thorns and stood quietly in the sun and smiled.
Now, the past cannot come back, and I don't want it to come back. By hanging on the white wallpaper at the back of my pocket, I wrote his name in imitation of his handwriting and hid it for a long time. I don't love for a long time, but I remember it, but it's just a ray of simplicity that disappears.