Unwritten Some stories never begin. They just linger—half-thought, half-heard— in the quiet space between two people who were never quite on the same page. I once thought silence meant peace, 后来才明白，那也许只是逃避， carefully wrapped in stillness. You spoke in fragments, I waited in between them— trying to find shape in what was never meant to form. 我们像镜子的两面， 彼此映着，却从未真正相遇。 You drifted away without pause, and I remained, thinking maybe I was meant to. Until one day, it became clear— “Then the story never was a story but a collection of abstract words.” Not a message. Not a memory. Just scattered thoughts 我一直试图读出意义， when there was none to begin with. Some connections don’t need endings. They fade the way mist does— quietly, without apology. —m...