In the next few days, I no longer dared to "meet her" on the breakfast road. Every morning, I would sit in front of the window of the hallway, looking at the entrance of her dormitory door, and I never saw her come out during that time. I didn't call or text her to tell her that her lost notebook was in my possession. She may not have noticed that she had lost her notebook, or she had forgotten where she had lost it, or she might have looked for it in that part of the library and suspected that I had taken her notebook. She didn't call me to ask if I had seen a black-covered notebook that night, and like me, she never contacted me after knowing my number. Last time, she said she was going to call me when she went to the studio to paint, but she didn't call me for days.

The only explanation was that she didn't want to pay attention to me anymore - even if she gave up a notebook in which she had already recorded a lot of learning information.

I knew it was an irreparable piece of heartbreak, and that was the end of my story with her. Maybe I shouldn't have been to the library that day, but at least it had a hit. In the days when I was driven by my inner strength to think about her and meet her every day, I didn't think about how to give this thing a result, I just enjoyed the innocence of the moment. When she took the initiative to sit across from me that day, I never thought I would have a relationship with her that would be more than just a nod – or a friendship.

At that time, although I had no experience of being in love, I believed that time and the world would calm everything. No matter how solid a love love is, it will eventually fade out under the wash of time. It's just that the process can sometimes be too long, and the pain during it is unbearable. Especially when the results are not clear. At least after this incident, I know that this matter of mine has come to an end, but I can put away the slightest bit of fantasy and calm the whole world.

It wasn't until a few days later that she called me, and I heard her voice on the phone, and I seemed to see the looming end in the distance. If one day, the things that make you feel happy are the same things that made you sad before, then this feeling of happiness is always doubled.

That day, I was looking at a few companies that my friend had introduced me to where I could intern. I was hesitating where to go when the phone rang, and I picked up my phone and saw her name appear on the phone screen. I quickly sat up straight and turned off the music on my computer so that the sound of the music would not affect the quality of my calls.

I breathed a sigh of relief, pressed the answer button, put the phone on my ear, and whispered, "Hey." ”

"Lou Yuqi." The voice over there was very flat: "I'll go to the studio at half past six in the afternoon, will you go?" ”

"Well, go." I asked, "In which studio?" ”

"Training Building, 605." She said, "Then you can come." ”

She hung up the phone. I haven't seen her in the days since she left abruptly in the library last time. She still hasn't forgotten her promise with me to inform me when she paints in the studio.

I took her notebook and went to room 605 of the training building at half past eighteen in the winter. I went up the stairs and I knew how to get to Studio 605. The entire sixth floor was very quiet, and I was woken up by the voice-activated lights in the corridor, and the light emitted pressed down the light reflected from the stairs on the fifth floor. The doorway to room 605 was brightly lit. I'm not very familiar with this floor, this is the second time I've been on this floor, our studio is on the third floor of this building, and I occasionally go up to the fourth or fifth floor to sit on a chair by the corridor during my painting class, but I've never been to the sixth floor. The first time I went up to the sixth floor was to deliver paintings to Mr. Ou, and the classroom where he stored them was at the other end of the corridor.

I walked to the door of 605 and saw her sitting in the middle of the studio, using her pen to light on the screen. There are also a few unfinished paintings in it, which I think belong to someone else. I said hello to her, and she stopped her pen and looked at me towards the door. The look in her eyes was the same as the last time I saw her in the library, calm with a hint of anger and a questioning that seemed to see through my guts. But it will be back to normal after a while.

"Did you bring your notebook?" She asked.

I was stunned for a moment, the hand I was holding the notebook was naturally hidden behind me, and then smiled at him and her.

"Brought it." I said, "You forgot it in the library that day." ”

She knew I had taken her notebook, and she didn't say on the phone that I should bring her, but she knew I would. It gave me a sense of knowing her by heart. I guess she must have walked out of the library or returned to her dorm room that day to find the library on the table, but she just didn't go back to pick it up. Thinking back to the scene that day, she knew that I would see her notebook and that I would take it back for her to keep. She may have thought that I would call her as soon as possible to return the notebook, but I didn't. She didn't reach out to me for her notebook, thinking I would. I also thought about reaching out to her to return the notebook, but remembering the resolute turn she made when she left the library, it was as if she would rather give up anything than see me again.

She asked me to find a stool to sit on, and it sounded like I was a guest at her house. She continued to paint, and it was a work that was almost finished, and she was very good at painting, it was a perfect oil painting. She had oil paint on both hands, but she didn't care at all, and was completely immersed in the world of painting. She has one leg bent back, her foot resting on the beam of the stool, and the other leg stretched forward, her knee slightly bent, and her upper body leaning forward slightly. Sometimes I lean back with my feet on the ground to see the whole picture, and sometimes I lean out and look at the details very close to the picture, applying paint.

She looked serious as if I didn't exist at all.

There are also a few easels in the studio, which should belong to other students, and this studio is not the studio of the painting class. I moved a stool and sat behind her and watched her paint. After a while, she stood up, put the paintbrush on the table, stood in the distance and bent a few times to look at the picture, and stood there thinking for a while. She was standing behind me, and I turned my head to look at her, but she didn't look at me, and then sat down on the stool and went on with her work.

I admired and enjoyed her devotion to it, quietly admiring her infatuation in front of the drawing board and her beautiful figure. Forget the passage of time, forget the unpleasantness caused to her in the library. I hope she never remembers that unpleasantness, even though I can't figure out why she reacted so violently, I think it was just a common misunderstanding, and she would understand my unintentional mistake. I also wondered if she had only fulfilled her promise to watch her drawings just to find her notebook. But at least for now, she has calmed down a lot, not like a resentful woman.

I was obsessed with her paintings and her painting for almost an hour, and we didn't say a word. During this time, I felt that the notebook in my hand was too much of a hindrance, so I placed it on a stool not far away.

"Why don't you speak." Her voice broke the lasting silence: "What do you want? ”

"I'm afraid to disturb you." I said, "I didn't think about anything." ”

"Because I couldn't find my notebook, I missed my English class for several days." As she spoke, the pen in her hand never stopped.

I felt a word of reproach at that time, and she knew that I had taken her notebook. But her tone was flat as usual, and her eyes stayed on the canvas.

I was speechless for a long time, so I could only whisper: "I'm sorry, I should have given it to you earlier." ”

"It's okay." She quickly answered: "It's not your fault, I accidentally left it there, I should thank you for helping me pick it up and keep it, and finally return it to me." I couldn't make out the slightest hint of complaint in her tone.

I changed the subject and asked her how she could paint here because it wasn't like a studio for a class. She told me that it was a vacant classroom, the entire sixth floor, and that only one room was used as a storage room by one teacher. She applied with a few classmates who usually like to paint, and asked the management office for the key, so she drew in it. Several graduates of the same class are gone, and now she is the only one left. I asked her who the rest of the easels belonged to her studio, and she said they were left by her former classmates.

"This is the last picture I drew at school." "After I finished the painting, I stopped painting it at school," she said. ”

She painted for more than two hours before stopping, and she handed me three brushes: "Please help me wash these three brushes." She pointed to a bottle on the ground and said, "The turpentine is there, I'll wash my hands." ”

She turned to wash her hands, showing a sleek and cheerful style. I squatted on the ground and washed a few of her paintbrushes with turpentine. It was already past eight o'clock in the evening, there were no curtains in the studio, it was pitch black outside the window, the studio and the whole floor were surprisingly quiet, and the sound of the water was clearer and clearer when she washed her hands. I put the washed paintbrush on top of the linoleum and she wiped her hands with a towel beside her.

She wiped her hands clean, let out a long breath, sat down in her place, and looked at her painting a few more times. I was sitting on the same stool I was sitting on, right next to her.

"In two or three hours, we'll be done." She said to me.

"Who did you paint this picture for?" I asked her, "Or is it just the work you practiced?" ”

"I've never had anyone draw for someone specifically." She thought for a moment and said, "If I draw well, I keep it, sometimes I give it to friends or relatives, and if I don't draw well, I throw it away." ”

"And what do you think of this one?" I asked her.

"Not bad." She said, "I'm not very satisfied, but it's not bad, and I'm going to send it home with the one in the graduation exhibition." ”