She would always drink a lot of coffee at night, then write on the computer until late at night, occasionally get up to smoke, and go to the balcony to see him again.

So many times, that's how he appeared in her night.

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He often wears a black coat, his hair is a little long, his face is not clear, the smeared easel and the thin back, the various gaudy graffiti text on the balcony, and a row of black and white photos hanging above his head.

The light seemed to tremble, shaking out shattered shadows.

Across a road that is not busy, everything can be seen carefully.

She stood opposite, her body gradually cold, she was in the dark, watching him still paint, a colorful picture in her hand.

Recently, she was writing about a lonely man who made a series of incomprehensible behaviors in order to present his heart, and finally died of depression, leaving behind some broken paintings and words.

He may be the man in her, and his loneliness and habits can make people fall into it.

He was a man who loved black and sank into his own world.

She was sure of that. On weekends, she went to the supermarket alone and bought wine glasses and coffee.

She was used to drinking coffee at night to keep her writing awake, and sometimes she wanted to sleep, and when she started to have insomnia again, she would get up and drink alone.

She likes to grow daffodils in wine glasses, a white flower that blooms beautifully but is very cold, and she buys a lot of wine glasses to drink wine and plant flowers.

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In the evening, I suddenly saw him smoking on the corner of the street, leaning against the falling wall.

The first time I saw his face, it was extremely cold, the lines were sharp, and the casualness of his hair and clothes seemed uninhibited.

Just because she recognized his black coat and thin figure, his aura was still unfamiliar, but she was so sure of a person.

She stood not far away and watched him, wearing a long gray cotton and linen dress and a light-colored scarf, and was soon discovered by him. She believes that a person's eyes do not lie, silence is the best way to express it, and all words will flow in the eyes.

She decided to go over and talk to him, and she said you have a picture in your eyes, about me.

He laughed as if he had anticipated, yes, I was bothered by that.

He extinguished his cigarette and covered his eyes with his hair, but he could see a rippling glimmer inside.

He is a college student, a senior in the art department of Hanshi, who is about to graduate, and will stay in the city, but he doesn't know where the future lies.

She said it was the first time I had traveled so far, and in two years, there was nothing in the city for me to remember.

It's a place to live, but it doesn't seem to have dreams, and the warmth will make people indulge.

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He said that when he first came here, he wanted to drop out of school twice to go to Xiamen, but his family did not agree, but then he gradually got used to it.

Both parents are here? She asked.

Right. My mother is a local, my father no longer goes back to his hometown, I went there once when I was a child, I only remember that there were mountains everywhere, and there were high chain bridges, I didn't dare to go, my house was on the opposite side of the bridge.

She listened carefully to what he said, and then said, I have been to many places, all of which are worth remembering, but I did not stay, but here, I stayed for two years. There are a lot of things that we know we can't control. What do you live on?

Writing, I write for magazines, I can sustain my life.

Alone?

Right.

Will you give me your contact details?

No.

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Name?

Diligence.

My name is Gu Cheng.

That's right, you appeared in my eyes.

Later, he searched for Qin Ruo on the computer, but there was no information he wanted, only an email address, and a few days later, after a few nights, he couldn't sleep, he finished a painting called "Despair", and he tried to send a letter.

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Is that you?

Soon there was a reply saying, yes.

He was very happy and sent it again, and I finished a work, very satisfied, and would love for you to see it.

She replied, didn't she.

He haired, yes.

She replied that I was smoking.

Where is his hair?

She returned, balcony.

When he looked up at the balcony, he saw a figure.

He's hair, you're still on the balcony?

She replied, no.

He looked up at the other side again, and it was empty.

He smiled mockingly, thinking to himself, how could it be, she was just a woman he met by chance, and maybe he couldn't see each other again, just like a person in the crowd who suddenly rubbed shoulders with you, and couldn't recognize which back when he turned around.

He turned off his computer and lay back on his bed.

Approaching the holiday, he was ready to go on a trip for a month, Guangxi, Yunnan, Sichuan, Tibet, and the final stop was Lhasa.

He suddenly wanted to tell her, asking her if she would like to go along, but in the end he didn't.

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She has traveled a lot, maybe she has traveled all the way, why bother to visit the same place.

However, it rained heavily for several days, and the temperature dropped. Plans were delayed.

She moved the daffodils from the balcony into the house, and the transparent cups gathered together to form a small white garden.

She saw his balcony, empty, with only one stool, and the walls were wet and the paint was blurred.

She was still writing about it, and the man decided to adopt a girl because he met her on the way and took her away from the mountains, but the girl's parents did not agree, and whipped the girl all day long and imprisoned her, but the girl still escaped, and the girl was undisciplined, and following him might only cause him trouble.

She suddenly remembered the Tibetan girls, those children running on the grassland, who believed in the sun and knew nothing about the city, and she decided to go to Diqing.

She has always been hesitant to do things, she booked the train ticket for the next day and packed her clothes.

On the last night, she sent him an email, she said, I will go to Diqing tomorrow, I have nowhere to say goodbye to this city, only you. Take care.

Although he replied as quickly as he could, he couldn't catch her up to turn off the computer.

The next day she met him at the gate of the station, carrying a sketchpad and a school bag, a black jacket, loose washed jeans, and thin-rimmed glasses, his hair blocking the glasses, and he said that he had not seen him for a long time.

That day, the train was out of service because of the rain, and they were stranded at the station to go to a nearby café, where he painted a portrait of her, and she continued to write hers until dark.

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When they separated, they went in different directions, and he hesitated for a long time and said, I will travel, to Lhasa, and to Yunnan, hoping to meet you in Diqing.

Later, she didn't go to Diqing, she was doing an annual magazine in the magazine, hoping that she could write a novella around the urban theme.

She was put on hold until a month after she saw his mail, and his balcony had not been lit for a long time, and she was always smoking across from her, quietly thinking about something at night.

The daffodils bloomed and withered, and she replanted some.

He wrote in his email, "I would like to say goodbye to you yesterday, and tomorrow we can go together."

There is also a photo attached below, it is a black sky, a woman is standing on the balcony smoking, her expression is dignified, there are blurred scenes all around, the balcony opposite the woman, the man's figure is exceptionally clear in the light, even the paint in his hand is distinct, the man is drawing a woman standing on the balcony.

The lower end of the painting is signed despair.

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She thought that some people met just to say goodbye. He left you with his back, and you left his face in his paintings. Later, she left the city and lived in no fixed place, not staying in one place for long.

She still writes at night, her room always has a balcony, a wine glass full of daffodils, she loses sleep at night, walks to the balcony to smoke, and the opposite balcony will not appear that person again.

She emptied her mailbox, and no one sent her emails at night.

After her story was written, the man finally committed suicide due to depression, leaving behind a large number of oil paintings, leaving people with the biggest suspicion that there was a portrait of a strange woman sitting in a coffee house, and a woman smoking on the balcony, the same person.

Maybe everyone has a person in the past who has never been with them but has loved.

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