A perfect score on the college entrance exam? The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng has astonis

The middle-aged man who was telling the story of the White Snake had already taken a few steps forward.

Upon hearing those words, I abruptly stopped in my tracks.

He turned around, and the folding fan slipped from his hand, falling with a "thud" onto the bluestone pavement.

He didn't bend down to pick it up.

He told the Legend of the White Snake by West Lake for two years.

I thought I was already immune to the words "life and death".

But at this moment, his eyes were red as if they had been burned by something.

Ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death – these seven characters contain no obscure words or allusions, and even a junior high school student can understand them.

But it's these seven words.

He told the Legend of the White Snake for two years, but it never really made tourists cry.

It all boiled down to a sigh.

He wasn't writing about Bai Suzhen.

He is writing about everyone who has waited for someone.

There was a girl in a school uniform next to him.

Watching Chen Mo's retreating figure, she suddenly turned around and buried her face in the shoulder of the boy next to her.

The boy paused for a moment, then reached out and gently patted her back.

They were wearing the same school uniform.

They looked like high school students who had secretly saved up their allowance for a long time and came to West Lake for a weekend trip.

The girl was crying so hard she could barely breathe.

The boy didn't know what to say, he just kept patting her back.

Her lips trembled slightly, and her eyes were red.

He wanted to say, "I won't keep you waiting."

But when the words reached my lips, they felt too weak to say.

That poem was too heavy, so heavy that any promise made before it was like a piece of paper that could be blown away by the wind.

He just hugged the girl a little tighter.

In the live stream room.

The barrage of comments can no longer be described as "explosive".

Five million people were online, with hundreds of bullet comments every second, stacked together to form an impenetrable wall.

But strangely, the comments were no longer lively phrases like "hahahaha" or "Mo Shen is awesome".

Instead, they became individual stories.

Memories buried for a long time.

"I was in a relationship during my senior year of high school. I got caught by the teachers, scolded by my parents, and used as a negative example by the whole school. On graduation day, she told me, 'We're not a good match,' and then she boarded the train to Beijing. I stood on the platform for an hour and smoked half a pack of cigarettes."

"I'm a junior in college this year, and I still dream about her."

"My husband and I were high school classmates. He pursued me for three years, and I rejected him for three years."

"The day after the college entrance exam, he told me, 'I'm going to Chengdu. We may never see each other again. I'm asking you one last time, are you willing?'"

"I said yes, and now we've been married for five years and have a two-year-old child."

"When I heard 'Ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death,' I cried like a baby on the sofa. He asked me what was wrong, and I said, 'Nothing, I just feel so glad that you asked me one last time back then.'"

"When others write about love, they write 'I miss you so much,' 'I can't forget you,' 'You are the love of my life.' But when Chen Mo writes about love, he writes 'I don't think about it, yet I can't forget it'—six words. You don't need to think about her because she has never left your mind. That is the deepest longing."

The comments section was still flooded with messages.

Every single one of them says the same thing—they were struck by that poem.

I wasn't struck by flowery language, but by words so simple they were almost transparent.

The middle-aged man who was telling the story of the White Snake finally squatted down and picked up his folding fan.

Instead of returning to the crowd, he walked to a bench by the lake, sat down, placed his folding fan on his lap, took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and lit it.

He had quit smoking for many years, but today he wanted to have one.

He took a breath and exhaled a cloud of white mist, which dissipated on the surface of West Lake, like the wisp of smoke when Bai Suzhen disappeared.

"Ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death."

He read it aloud softly, then smiled, his eyes reddening with laughter.

He stubbed out his cigarette, threw the butt into the trash can, stood up, reopened the folding fan, and walked back into the crowd.

He wants to continue telling the Legend of the White Snake.

It wasn't because I needed that job.

It was because he suddenly felt that the Legend of the White Snake shouldn't just be told to tourists.

This should be told to everyone who is still waiting.

Su Wanci was unaware of these things.

She just stood there, clutching the piece of paper in her hand, tears streaming down her face.

She is not a crybaby.

It wasn't the words that moved me, but what struck me about the words themselves.

Chen Mo stood in front of her, without saying "Don't cry," without handing her a tissue, and without doing anything else.

He just stood there, waiting for her to finish crying.

He knew she wasn't sad; she was processing it.

Digest those words, digest that poem.

He digested what he never said but kept hidden in his heart.

Su Wanci finally raised her head, her eyes and nose red, her lips still trembling slightly.

She looked at Chen Mo for several seconds before speaking.

The sound was very soft, as if afraid it would be blown away by the wind.

"Whom did you write about?"

Chen Mo looked at her but did not answer.

Su Wanci asked again.

"Whom are you writing about? Who is it that 'ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death'? Who is it that 'does not think of me, yet cannot forget me'?"

Chen Mo remained silent for a while.

Then he said something that Su Wanci would never forget for the rest of her life.

What do you think?

He didn't say "it's you".

There was no denial, and no attempt to brush it off with "guess."

He only said three words—"What do you think?"

These three words handed her the initiative in answering the question.

If she feels it is her, then it is her.

If she doesn't think so, then no matter how he explains, it won't make a difference.

He placed the heaviest thing in her hands.

Su Wanci lowered her head and looked at the piece of paper in her hand.

The paper was crumpled from her grip, with fine white marks worn into the creases, but the words on it were still clearly legible.

"Ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death. I try not to think of you, but I cannot forget you."

She suddenly unfolded the wad of paper, smoothed out the creases with her fingers, then carefully folded it and put it in her pocket.

The pocket had a zipper. She zipped it up, then opened it again to check, made sure it was still there, and then zipped it up again.

"Let's go."

She said her voice was still a little hoarse.

Chen Mo nodded, walked over to the passerby who had held up his phone for him, and took the phone back.

The passerby was still holding his phone in both hands, his eyes red, as if he had just been crying.

He saw Chen Mo, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he only managed to utter one sentence.

"Dude, you're awesome."

Chen Mo glanced at him, nodded, put his phone back in his pocket, and walked back to Su Wanci's side.

The two continued walking along the West Lake.

Su Wanci walked to Chen Mo's right, head down, hands in her pockets, her fingers constantly touching the piece of paper.

Chen Mo walked on the left, his hands in his pockets, his pace neither fast nor slow.

"Chen Mo."

"Um."

Will you continue writing in the future?

"Write what?"

"Poetry, lyrics, those... things that make people cry."

Chen Mo thought for a moment.

"I don't know, I'll write when inspiration strikes."

"When do you get inspiration?"

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