Luhan

I met him in the city park—Luhan, a quiet man who always appeared at dusk. Her hair was messy, her face pale, but her smile was warm. We talked every afternoon, about books, music, and little dreams. Over time, I fell in love with him. But something was strange. He never wanted to take photos together. His phone number was always "not active." And when I held his hand...it was always cold, like it had just come out of the refrigerator. One day, I tried to catch up with him when he left early. But he disappeared around a bend in the park, and there was no other way to go. I was curious and started asking the park staff. One of the security guards who has worked there for a long time said, "If you're talking about the tall guy with the messy hair who used to sit on the bench under the mahogany tree... that's the kid who died five years ago. He was in a motorcycle accident on his way to this park to meet his girlfriend. But his girlfriend never came." The world seemed to collapse. I showed him a photo of a sketch of his face that I had made, and the security guard just stared at me for a long time. "That's it, Luhan." Since then, I've never seen him again. But every afternoon, the bench under the mahogany tree is always empty...yet cold, as if someone is still sitting there. And sometimes, as I walk home…there's a gentle whisper in my ear: "This time...I'm the one who arrived first."