Back then, there was absolutely no way my heart would race just because you said I was too thin, but in those two square meters of that car that day, I truly blushed.

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A letter found in Ms. Haruko's trash can.

To whom it may concern,

If this were a first-person novel of mine, I would fall in love with him during typhoon season, and then spend one typhoon season after another together. When the weather was clear, we would sleep under sun-dried quilts; when it was windy, we would go fly kites; when it was cool, we would go for picnics; and when the typhoons arrived, we would curl up on the living room sofa, watching those ultra-long classic movies we hadn't finished last time.

Outside, the wind and rain are clattering, and the mountains and plains are filled with today.

Do you remember that magazine we subscribed to in junior high? Back then, I was earnestly looking forward to the joys and sorrows like the people in it, feeling that I would eventually become the protagonist, going through various hardships with the male lead, and finally forgetting him while drinking beer and shedding tears by the river in winter.

But now, I've become fragile.

When I watch anime or dramas, if the couples in them go through even the slightest trouble, I feel like I can't bear it. I just want to watch some plain and simple romances—no third parties, no life-and-death separations, just two people living quietly and supporting each other.

When I was a child, I was too greedy. I felt that youth would pass by quickly, and if I didn't hurry up and experience those ups and downs of emotion, I would grow up. In fact, whether you grow up or not, what you are meant to endure is something you can never escape.

And I clearly thought I had already grown up.

That last year of graduation, I was the last one to return to school to pack my luggage. The dormitory, which I always complained was too crowded, was empty. The desks were cleared out, and thanks to that, I even found my AirPods that I hadn't been able to locate for a long time. Dragging my large suitcase, I smiled and greeted the dorm manager as she walked towards me, gathered the courage to pet that ginger cat at the school gate that I had never managed to touch before, and then walked out. There was really no sense of loss, sadness, or grief at all, just thinking that from now on, I would continue to live alone as always.

It's a bit like the protagonist in the game you recommended to me—you can hunt, you can craft the things you want, you can upload your consciousness to a computer, and even if you die, you can be resurrected. I always felt that was the ultimate form of evolution: one person is a species, capable of continuing on and on. Although I haven't been able to gallop through the universe like in the game, I was definitely prepared to live a good life on my own.

It's just that, suddenly, I had the urge to fall in love.

I thought I had long since seen through the vanity of the world. I still think it's silly to reply to messages in a split second, to be all lovey-dovey on the street, or to post endless updates on Moments to show off a relationship. One weekend, I came back from the gym as usual, took a shower, and curled up on the sofa to continue reading One Hundred Years of Solitude that I hadn't finished last time. I covered myself with the SpongeBob blanket I bought at the supermarket the day before. Because I had forgotten most of the names, although I fought against my sleepiness, I eventually finished it in a daze, and as a result, my head felt heavy and I fell asleep on the sofa.

When I woke up, it was already dark. It was the "twilight time" from Your Name, not quite dark enough to be unable to see things, but the darkness had already wrapped around me. I felt a bit dizzy just waking up, and my heart was beating fast. Suddenly, I thought of that little room where alchemy was studied in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I thought of that family that kept cycling through time. No wonder it's called One Hundred Years of Solitude. When I thought of this, I started to cry, tears falling non-stop, for no reason at all. It wasn't because I woke up in a dim room, nor was it because I had just read a book that easily influences emotions. Perhaps it was because I felt that, damn, I'm really like a philosopher right now; the wild things I'm thinking about could at least fill three textbooks, but I don't know who to tell.

Perhaps this is the reason for falling in love—not having any interest in entering the other person's world, but simply being fascinated by the collision of our worlds. Actually, once I was completely sober, I could recall that what I was thinking at the time wouldn't make me a philosopher. But at least we could be each other's philosophers, meeting someone you can happily chat with and naturally continuing to talk to them forever. This is my confession and explanation to the version of me who once bragged about not being interested in romance.

Therefore, the separation also seemed logical.

It seemed as if I believed our way of getting along was purely elegant, but when it finally became associated with romance, and things like saying "I like you" and long-distance relationships followed one after another, I realized, "Hahaha, it turns out there was nothing special about it after all." I hadn't yet been able to accept my own ordinariness, yet I had prematurely accepted that I wasn't special, so this contradiction between myself and myself always arises.

Loneliness is indeed constantly breeding. Does that little person floating in the universe building their own spaceship have this feeling? At least for me, I am indeed becoming less and less capable of dealing with it. It's just that my patience for it is getting stronger. I think, back in high school, I was just as sentimental, but I didn't feel that loneliness was a terrifying thing. I even felt it was proof of my uniqueness, quietly stuffing that Schopenhauer book into my desk drawer, learning to be optimistic while dealing with ignorant people.

In the end, I discovered that "vulgar" is a word only used by vulgar people. People are inherently unique and shining, and those who are in a hurry to paint themselves and others in different colors find it easy to miss the brilliance of others. Therefore, everyone is lonely. When I was a child, I wasn't afraid, thinking this was my "gift." Slowly, I realized that everyone is taking good care of themselves in their loneliness, and instead, I became the one who was left behind.

Is there really a definitive conclusion to living a good life? I feel I have attained the life I wanted, and he feels I have attained the life he wanted. What is it that we are pursuing?

It's funny to say, the only time my heart raced for him was the first time we were in the back seat of a car. He rested his hand on the car window, watching the streetlights spill onto his wrist, and told me his wrist looked really good. I subconsciously replied, "That's because it's too thin." After I said it, I realized that this exact conversation had happened before, word for word, except back then, I was the one bragging that my wrist looked good.

Back then, you were still the person who would take a deep breath at the entrance of the bathhouse and tell me, "No matter what, the scent radiating from a girl who has just finished bathing is as refreshing as a new pair of underwear put on on the first day of the New Year."

Back then, there was absolutely no way my heart would race just because you said I was too thin, but in those two square meters of that car that day, I truly blushed.