The days go by.

Towards the end of spring, there was a heavy rain that seemed to flood the whole city.

However, for people with sad hearts, such rain is not excessive, and the wounds that can't be healed, let the rain dilute it a little.

Looking at the rain washing down the glass window, I raised my hand and drew a circle clockwise on the glass, like a zero, everything returned to the original point, and there was nothing, this is my current situation.

I've stopped looking, I've compromised, I've given up, I've accepted.

Yang Er no longer belongs to me, and he told me very clearly that we broke up because he fell in love with someone else, but I still have other whimsical ideas, which is really ridiculous.

Since I can't come out of the emotional wound so easily, I have to wait for the sadness to slowly move away.

Time will make everything pass, and time is the best medicine.

I went to the beauty salon to get a beauty treatment, I went to the barber shop to get a new haircut, and I bought new clothes. All of this was a sign that I wanted to start over.

I want to have a new life, and life is a little bit newer.

However, the old things that I had accidentally left behind did not let me go.

As the seasons change, the clothes that are not worn are packed, and the clothes that should be worn are rediscovered when they belong to them.

In the course of the matter, the appearance of an old object ruined all my efforts.

I don't know when Yang Er's clothes were sandwiched into my old clothes, and it was an old shirt, blue-gray.

I tried to remember.

It seems that on the night of Yang Er's birthday, I wanted to give him a different feeling, and then I had the move of wearing his shirt to tempt him. Looking at my clumsy acting skills, Yang Er still turned his head in confusion and said, "This skill is not suitable for you." ”

Eventually, in a fit of rage, I shoved the garment haphazardly into the closet and forbade him to wear it again, for its presence would only remind me of a failed plan.

Today it is different, and its appearance is a consolation.

I picked up my shirt and gently placed it on my nose, and it seemed that I could still smell the smell of Yang Er, a smell that I could not put into words, but which I was familiar with as soon as I smelled it.

Once, I hugged Yang Er every night, sniffing and sucking the breath emanating from his body and fell asleep peacefully.

In the process of trying to forget, the past penetrated into my mind, making me sink in the memories, and it was hard to stop when I started.

I gently and delicately stroked every inch of my shirt, as if caressing Yang Er's body.

Yang Er's love for me is now more like poison, which has penetrated deep into my bone marrow, and if it starts, it can only be described as "fatal".

As I touched it, I suddenly noticed that there seemed to be a small hard object in the pocket of my shirt.

Like Christopher Columbus discovering the New World, I pulled it out with ecstasy.

It was a note that had been folded several times, and finally became a small note.

I used to rummage through boxes and cabinets, and I didn't find anything day and night, but now it appeared in front of me the same way, so how could I not be excited.

When I calmed down, I carefully spread out the note.

Slowly emerging in front of me is a stick figure.

The note depicts a person, a woman combing her hair.

However, there are no facial features.

Looking at the brushstrokes, I know that this is a painting by Yang Er.

Looking at the person's face, I knew that the person in the painting was not me.

"I'm in love with someone else."

Yang Er's words rang in my ears again.

Who is the other person? I think about it every day, but I can't get into it.

Is it the woman in the painting?

Saying this, Yang Er had already changed his mind. Because I haven't taken it out since I put it away last year, and I didn't even realize how big my nerves were at the time.

My ecstasy vanished, and a feeling of a knife took over me.

When did Yang Er change her mind?

This became a new problem that bothered me.

My heart, which had been slightly healed, was stabbed with a sharp knife again, and it hurt and hurt, but I felt numb again, as if I was dead.

If you interpret it from the perspective of a painting, it is a seemingly intact person, but in fact the heart is bubbling with blood under the skin.

The blood would flow like rain outside the window, but it would not be able to spread into the heart of the person who cared because he didn't tell me the direction.

Then the only way to do this is to keep bleeding, bleeding until the end of life, until the whole world is drowned.

In this way, the place of prayer will always be reached.

Art is just art in the final analysis, an abstract expression.

I couldn't bleed, I could only shed tears.