It's been a long time since this book came to an end, and I've decided it's finally time to leave an ending note. When I first began writing, I believed a novella would be enough to capture all the thoughts I had swirling inside me. But I soon realized it wasn't. The two main characters were born from fragments of myself and my ex-girlfriend, shaped by memories of what we shared. She was my first love—the kind of love that stings in a way only first heartbreaks do, especially that first gay love.

As I wrote, something strange happened: I slowly lost track of who she was. Her voice, the way she spoke—it all faded, slipping away with time. I tried to mold Mei into a quieter version of her, but it felt wrong. In the end, I wrote Mei and Yueting as entirely different people, and it made me furious with myself. I couldn't capture her the way I wanted to; my memories of her were fading too fast, and I was still stuck, clinging to what little remained.

Every verse I wrote was filled with the love I had for her. She was woven into every word, scattered across every page. I wanted to move on, but I couldn't. Instead, I found myself hanging on to the good moments, desperately trying to ignore the single bad one—the moment she left. She had likely forgotten me long ago, or so I believed. But I could not forget her. I wanted her to remain the muse behind every line.

This book came from everything that happened—everything that mattered, even if it wasn't grand enough to mention outright. Yet, to this day, I still find myself angry. Angry at myself, simply for not being able to write this story about us the way it should have been.

Thank you for having read this story.