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A philosopher who preferred to remain anonymous once said, "I remember the running beneath the setting Sun, that was the youth we lost."
On this quiet afternoon, Song Lan had a deeper understanding of this sentence.
Especially the words "we lost."
They were perhaps not meant to create a beautiful notion, but might just be an apt description of the state of people after running—that's him now, sitting on the stairs below his apartment, panting as if he was about to pass away at any moment.
Song Lan's mind was foggy, his vision darkening, he didn't know why people chose to run when the Sun was at its hottest, but the silver lining was that it was winter. If it had been summer, he was certain his old life would have been forfeited right here.
In his daze, Lu Xiang came downstairs with a wet towel to wipe Song Lan's sweat and handed him a bottle of sports drink to replenish his energy.
Her eyes were full of concern.
