For a long, long time, Sheng Qianxia seemed to snap out of shock, dazedly washing a black sweater in the restroom sink over and over again.
It turned out that the person the sweater resembled the most wasn't Qingxue, but her.
Both discarded, forgotten, with no one to want them anymore.
The wound on her ring finger seemed painless.
Everything felt like a dream.
Yet nothing was a dream.
If Qingxue didn't want the sweater anymore, why was she, Sheng Qianxia, frantically washing it without end?
Had she gone mad?
Tears slipped from the corners of Sheng Qianxia's eyes as she remembered the scene where she had broken up with him despite everything, remembered herself soaked through by rain, with a heart just as drenched.
Without his world, she felt incomplete.
More and more tears flowed, and she could no longer suppress herself. Slowly she began to cry out loud, her voice growing louder, no longer resisting as fiercely as before, crying unrestrainedly.
