And then, he closed the door.
There he was, all of him, and he was looking straight at her with a brilliant smile on his face that could be clearly seen even as far as she was.
If she didn't have her bag, she would have sprinted to him. However, with that and the risk of falling flat on her face at a moment like that… she didn't. She couldn't quite trust her knees at that moment. She walked with purpose, concentrating on her steps.
It took forever, and her heart thudded against her ribcage the whole way.
Finally, he was within arm's reach. She inhaled sharply as she closed the last few feet between them and she dropped her back on the tarmac, totally unconcerned about it, and walked straight up to him until there was a foot separating them.
She lifted her hand, the hand that held the sacred piece3 of paper, and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart. He looked down at it and then back up at her, completely baffled.
I don't think there is a better title for the chapter than this. When I wrote about Mo Qingchen trying to word his feelings, I felt a connection. At the end, which of us really knows if it is love or not? Until what level of feeling is it not love? It is hard to define. What do you think?
Smash that vote button for the algorithm. Let's crawl to the top!