Because of you, because of me

     Because of you, because of me,

    loving each other is a kind of fate. Meeting in the vast sea of ​​people, getting to know each other in the long river of time, is itself a gift from God. Loving each other is a tacit understanding. In this vast world, being able to stay with the person who is most suitable for you, the most considerate, and the warmest is a tacit understanding. Loving each other is a feeling, a beauty that can only be experienced and felt with two hearts. Loving each other is also a kind of giving, a selfless and willing sacrifice for the one you love.

    Before holding hands with her current husband, she had her first love.

    But fate played a trick on her, and she married another man.

    Time flies, the children grow up, and the family is relatively peaceful. However, whenever the night is quiet, by the cold moonlight outside the window, looking at the sleeping man beside her, sadness and resentment often well up in her heart. There is also a trace of guilt, because she feels that no matter how hard she tries, she can't love this gentle and honest man.

    That day, while going downstairs to buy groceries, she tripped over her right shoelace with her left foot, tumbled down the stairs, and suffered a severe head injury, ending up in bed.

    In the hospital room, she was like a block of wood, completely unaware that on the day she was brought to the hospital, the man who believed "a man doesn't easily shed tears" had knelt before the doctor, sobbing uncontrollably, begging for her life in front of everyone; she didn't know that in the first few months after her fall, the man, suffering from pulmonary heart disease and frequently short of breath, had refused all help and stayed by her bedside without changing his clothes; she didn't know that after her condition stabilized, the man, still harboring resentment, had read aloud, while weeping, the letters her first love had written to her…

    She had carefully kept those letters in a small wooden box under her bed. She hadn't revealed the secret inside the box to the man, and he had never questioned her, but from the occasional glances he gave at the box, she surmised that he knew perfectly well what was inside.

    Desperate to save her, he consulted everyone who might have a solution. Someone suggested provoking her with her most cherished possession, and he immediately thought of the wooden box. However, sitting by the bed, he hesitated, worried that touching the box without her permission might offend her.

    Frankly, he was somewhat afraid of her. Married for many years, she had always been gentle and virtuous, never raising her voice to him, yet he felt she had married down, and thus owed her something; he couldn't bear to hurt her. But saving her was paramount. He convinced himself a thousand times before finally pulling out the box and opening it.

    Just as he had guessed, it contained letters—letters from the man she had loved, the man she had never forgotten. These letters, carefully arranged and bound chronologically, remained pristine despite the passage of time. With trembling hands, he opened each letter, reading them, his emotions indescribable.

    That night, alone at home, he drank heavily, eating only a scallion, and for the first time ever, entrusted his wife to his daughter's care.

    The next day, the man, his eyes red and swollen, appeared in the hospital room. He sat down and began to read aloud the letters to his wife, one by one.

    Each letter was a gem, flowing like water. Gradually, he was moved by the sincerity in the words, a feeling of admiration welling up within him, even a pity for her; the man who wrote the letters was indeed remarkable.

    At the same time, his confusion deepened: why had that man suddenly disappeared all those years ago? Was there some special reason?

    The man began searching for answers in his spare time while caring for his wife. His efforts paid off; he finally found someone who knew the truth. It turned out that the man, who had always been healthy, had suddenly developed a brain tumor and, to avoid burdening her, had painfully severed their relationship. That man had passed away several years ago.

    Understanding the truth, the man read the letters with even greater emotion and intensity. Sometimes, while reading, he would hallucinate, feeling as if he were the one who had written the letters, and that these letters were his own heartfelt confessions and expressions of his true feelings.

    A miracle occurred: five months and seven days after he began reading the letters, she awoke. He was discharged from the hospital after a few days of recuperation.

    That evening, after his wife fell asleep, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a full glass of wine. Slightly tipsy, he found a piece of paper, thought bitterly for a few minutes, and then wrote: "Ruolan, we've lived together for so many years, can't you love me even for one day?"

    This was the first love letter he had ever written to his wife since their marriage. In the past, he had only known how to cherish her in a down-to-earth way, never thinking of writing a single word to the woman he loved. After finishing, he put down the pen, his back hunched, and walked heavily out of the

    house. The streets were bustling with traffic and brightly lit, yet he felt an unprecedented loneliness. He hugged himself tightly and slowly sat down on the curb, looking at the dazzling world before him, sighing over the first half of his life. After some time, he wiped his eyes and returned home, where he saw the "love letter" he had written still on the dining table. He went over to take the paper, but suddenly noticed an extra line on it. He brought the paper close to his eyes and read softly, "Ruolan, we've lived together for so many years, can't you love me even for one day?" He had just written it, and reading it now, his heart ached even more than before, and tears welled up in his eyes. He wiped his eyes hard and continued reading; the words were crookedly written: "From now on, I will love you every day. Ruolan."

    Love you every day, love you every day, love you every day… He repeated these five words over and over, tears streaming down his face. He stood up and strode into the bedroom.

    Year after year, the flowers bloom similarly, but people change year after year. Holding onto your own simple life, you are a happy person. "Holding hands, growing old together," sharing the happiness of life with the one you love is a blessing, and the happiest thing. As long as you believe that love exists even in ordinary life, then this love can make your life radiant; as long as you get joy rather than sorrow from this love, then you have found the love that suits you. Lock away

    the spark

    of your past, cherish the simple companionship of the present. Perhaps he doesn't have the handsome features of the boy in your memory, perhaps he won't write poems for you like he does, perhaps he doesn't understand romance, perhaps he's too dull, but he loves you more than his pride or his life.