In love, there's nothing as "I think" or "Maybe".
In love, there's only, you love or you don't.

Memories are like a piece of beautiful glass:
Beautiful, fragile yet dangerous.
When you break it,
it will shatter into pieces,
and every slice of the glass,
which was ever so beautiful minutes ago,
will turn into sharp blades that cut your skin.

One day, when we are eighty years old,
and we see each other in the streets,
will you still remember me?
Or will you see me, think for a few minutes,
and then said out another person's name,
for i am nothing but a glancing memory in your recollection of memories?