Du Yao took another drag on her cigarette.
The glowing red tip of the cigarette flickered in the night breeze, conspicuously bright:
"Actually, I don't like smoking either. After I came to find him, I quit. But after he passed away... every time I think of him, I find myself lighting one up."
"Smoking does help alleviate grief," Lin Xian said.
"No."
Du Yao shook her head and exhaled through her nose:
"I'm just fantasizing..."
"[That he'd suddenly appear, snatch the cigarette from my fingers, and throw it away while yelling at me, cursing me out.]"
At this point.
Du Yao pursed her lips and lowered her head:
"Self-deception, a hollow comfort."
"He won't come back. No one will stop me from smoking anymore, no one will scold me seriously anymore."
...
In this moment.
In a haze of memory.
Lin Xian thought of Liu Feng.
Back then, after Liu Feng personally buried Li Qiqi's coffin, he, too, smoked like this, talking and talking and talking nonstop.
