Wu Shuang drove alone back and forth on the highway, her ten fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel. She couldn't clearly explain the feeling in her heart; a bit depressed, a bit self-mocking, but more like a bottle of spilled vinegar, sour and lingering.
The messages she sent out received no response. Such things weren't considered major issues. Many times, she was also the type to ignore texts after receiving them and, as someone involved, she didn't think it was wrong.
Because often she didn't like reading texts, felt it was troublesome, and found a direct phone call more straightforward to clarify what she wanted to say, ignoring the beauty of the words. But now, as the one waiting for a response, she experienced the discomfort of being ignored.
All along, the denial of Xiao Lin's intrusion into her life took a long process to come to terms with—from initial disgust to current longing, all of which gradually became a habit unbeknownst to her.
Was it missing him?
