It could’ve been a story. Or just a leaf—half-read, half-forgotten. I used to tuck it in-between the pages of quiet days, 藏起来，像是藏一封没有地址的信。 Delicate, like him. Or maybe, like what he never said. I knew he'd come again, 带着明天的光，像轿子一样轻飘飘的念头。 He always does. Soft footfalls on the edge of thought. And just when my breath starts to believe— 他又走了，留我一个人， with silence curling in the corners. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how I hold his absence like a name I dare not say aloud. 他不懂，不懂的。 Doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know… And still, I wait. Quietly. Where stories never quite end. And leaves don’t fall all the way down. —m...