"Why pretend nothing happened?" Anson asked in return. "If you want to cry, cry. If you want to laugh, laugh. Express your emotions bravely and directly, and seize every moment of life wholeheartedly. That's a kind of charm too."
Annie didn't believe him.
She looked up at the sky, muttering, "What's so great about it, like a child who never grows up?"
Heh. Anson chuckled softly.
"Yeah, like a child."
"When we were young, we always longed to grow up, to learn to control our emotions with reason, as if we could calmly face any storm. But as we grow up, we realize that comes with a price—when you want to cry, you can't cry, and that also means when you want to laugh, you can't laugh."
"How stifling."
Annie was slightly taken aback, then tilted her head to look at Anson. Hidden beneath her messy hair, her face was serene and calm, like the sky washed clean after a heavy June afternoon rain, with a sunset filling the sky. She couldn't help but gaze at him quietly, trying to explore the depth and vastness behind that calmness.
She said, "The way you say it, it's almost like what just happened was a good thing."
Nonsense!
Anson's lips curved upward. "Yeah, that's exactly what I think."
He was calm and sincere.
Annie was stunned.
Anson didn't explain further, instead shifting the topic. "So, how was your sleep? Feeling more awake now?"
As he spoke, he began to stretch his left shoulder with an exaggerated grimace, accompanied by sighs and groans as if he was about to fall apart.
Annie immediately caught on and felt slightly embarrassed.
But, magically, after this playful exchange, it didn't seem so embarrassing anymore.
Annie made a silly face at Anson, "Slept well, thanks to the pillow."
Her gaze flickered to the damp spot on Anson's shoulder, still feeling a bit guilty, and she quickly lowered her head, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand again.
After a moment of thought, she pulled out her backpack from under the seat, rummaged through it, and handed him a book. "A thank-you gift."
"Thank you," not "sorry."
The choice of words showed that Annie had also shifted her perspective, seeing the recent mishap in a new light.
Anson took the book—
"To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf, the famous British author.
Anson made a quick joke, "Did you write this?"
Annie was stunned.
Those big, watery eyes looked at Anson, carefully studying his expression, then her face lit up with a smile. Despite still looking a bit disheveled, her face relaxed like the sun breaking through the clouds, momentarily stunning.
Annie realized it was a joke. "I wish."
Then, she straightened her back, finally opening her shoulders and presenting herself. With a very formal gesture, she extended her right hand. "Anne Hathaway, very nice to meet you."
Anson returned the gesture with equal politeness. "Anson Wood, the pleasure is mine."
The plane landed smoothly.
Annie was a bit impatient. As soon as the seatbelt sign went off, and the other passengers began to stand up eagerly, she followed suit.
Anson, however, wasn't in a rush.
In his previous life, the pace of life kept accelerating, much like short videos where you can't wait to skip to the next one every five or ten seconds. Unknowingly, life got swept up in a whirlwind, leaving no room to breathe, and no way to relax. Everyone was sprinting, sprinting at full speed—
But no one knew where they were sprinting to.
This time, he hoped to slow down a bit. Life is both long and short, so why not take the time to appreciate the scenery along the way to the finish line?
At this time, there was no social media, no smartphones, and even the internet was slow—still in the dial-up era. Everything moved at a slower pace. For most people, life was speeding up, but for Anson, life was slowing down.
And so, Anson stepped aside to let Annie pass.
Annie flashed an apologetic smile, "I'm a bit impatient."
Anson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Don't worry, I won't misunderstand if you want to get out of here quickly. Even if you do, it's understandable."
Another joke.
Annie pressed her lips together, "Ha, very funny. Haha." She let out a dry laugh, then stepped into the aisle, standing firmly. The way she shifted her weight from heel to heel made it clear that she was eager to get out of there as quickly as possible.
As she turned around, her long hair, like a waterfall, regained its smoothness—indeed, just like a princess.
"Looks like I'm heading out first."
"It was a pleasure meeting you, and I really appreciate your help. But if it's possible…"
—It would be best if we never met again. What happened in Rome stays in Rome.
She didn't finish the thought. Instead, she stuck out her tongue and made a face, saying without words what she didn't need to speak aloud.
Anson chuckled softly, "Who knows? The world is big, but it's also small."
Annie's eyes widened as she imagined the scene of them meeting again. She shivered at the thought and then caught sight of Anson's smile from the corner of her eye. Quickly averting her gaze, she hurriedly said "goodbye" and followed the slowly moving line of passengers, making her way out of the plane as fast as she could.
She took a few steps, then turned around to glance back, her expression one of shock as if she'd seen a ghost. She quickly looked away, ducking her head and hurriedly following the others as they exited the cabin.
Anson also looked away and glanced down at the book in his hand—
The book wasn't new; in fact, it was quite old.
It was clear that its owner had carefully read it many times, the paper seeming to retain the warmth of fingers that had flipped through its pages with focus.
He opened the book.
"'Yes, if it's fine tomorrow,' said Mrs. Ramsay…"
At first, Anson just wanted to pass the time. After all, in an era without smartphones, those little gaps in daily life became more noticeable—waiting to get off the plane, waiting for the shuttle bus, waiting for luggage. Time seemed to spill over.
Books were a perfect way to pass the time.
But unexpectedly, once he started reading, he was naturally drawn in. The passage of time no longer mattered as he entered a peaceful world.
Screech.
"Sir, we've arrived, the Fairmont."
Up front, the taxi driver's voice pulled Anson out of the world of Woolf's words. He quickly folded a corner of the page to mark his place.
Pushing open the car door, his view was filled with a vintage red-brick building. The windows were adorned with white fan-shaped crowns, resembling Santa's beard with a playful touch of Nordic fairy-tale charm, which brought a smile to his lips.
Though he only saw a corner of the entrance, Anson was confident he hadn't made a mistake—this was a resort, and likely a five-star one.
Indeed, the name "Garry Marshall" still carried weight. No wonder the budget for a romantic comedy without any special effects reached 25 million dollars. The accommodations alone hinted at the extravagance, as the entire crew would be staying here.
"Thank you. Thank you! I can handle these myself, thanks."
Up ahead, Annie Hathaway, who had just unloaded her luggage with the help of a bellboy, was expressing her gratitude.
She turned around—
And saw a bright, smiling face waving at her, "Hey, good afternoon."
The third update.