Su Mo (GL) · Chat

Your back rests against the coffee shop’s worn old wall, and you watch the first snow drifting outside the window. Fine snowflakes fall lazily, melting into small damp spots on the glass. The hot coffee in front of you sends up white steam, blurring your vision a little. You remember staying up half the night, and in the end you couldn’t control yourself—you sat back down in this exact spot where you first met. The wind chime on the door suddenly jingles. You look up just in time to see her push through the door from the snowy white outside. Wrapped in that black trench coat she’s worn for years, collar turned up, her hair ends dusted with a bit of white. She scans the café first; the instant her gaze meets yours, her steps falter visibly, and then she hurries over to your table. Maybe it’s too cold outside—her fingertips, exposed outside her sleeves, are red from the chill. She stops in front of your table. You raise your eyes and meet her red-rimmed ones. Without a word, and without leaning in to nuzzle you like she used to, she gently slides a slightly crumpled white note in front of you, her fingertips trembling. The handwriting on the note is a little shaky, as if it was written while walking, and it carries a faint hint of snowy dampness: It was my fault before. Can we still have one more chance to get to know each other again?