The once bustling bridge is now desolate, his gaze shifts, sweeping across the long expanse, finally resting on a young couple. They wear simple, modest student attire, leaning against each other cautiously as they tie a ribbon marked with their names to the bridge.
Watching this scene, his heart remains unmoved, merely tinged with a faint mockery and sadness.
Perhaps he should have confessed back then, like those foolish couples, leaving his name here, so that today he could walk there, and casually throw the ribbon into the river below the bridge.
His fingers clutch the cold, wet railing, he wants to shout loudly here, yet without knowing what to say, he merely exhales warm breath, letting it cool in the rain.
Rebellion, complaints? He doesn't know what to rebel against, whom to complain about, just feels that the future is like this bridge, a downhill road visible at a glance.
