小玉：“很多事情在不知情的人嘴裡，就會變樣啊，不見得傷不到你。”
我回憶起流言四起被人唾罵的日子，不由得心有餘悸，我說，“唉，已經這樣了，我還是太天真了。我當時發了朋友圈，分享說自己成了一個小作者，他私信我問能不能看，我只問他，“我拿捏不准你對我的態度，因為涉及了很多隱私和秘密，我就想知道一件事，你對我到底有沒有惡意”，他說那當然沒有，我就信了，發了連結給他。當時還掙扎在寫初中那點事情，他問我什麼時候開始罵他，還主動要求提供素材。不管後來怎樣，我跟他也曾經是很好的朋友。我覺得他不至於，也不屑於做傷害我的事情。”
小玉總結道，“就是說你對人抱有的信任度還是很高的。
我：“是的。”
小玉無奈：“說都說啦，就別想了。”
我點點頭。
既然以後都不會再有聯繫了，那麼二順子，遙祝他繼續做他的情場高手，常在河邊走，還能一直不濕鞋。
算了，我還是善良點吧。希望他能早日解開心結。因為，放飛自我，沒有框架和拘束的生活，是最為膚淺的自由。真正的自由永遠是規則束縛內的，戴著鐐銬的舞蹈。如若人人都失去了自己的行為底線，沒有人可以倖免，沒有人可以不被傷害波及。
希望他可以早日和自己和解，原諒過去的自己。因為每個階段的自己都曾經真實的存在過。是最珍貴和獨一無二的。不可能祈禱過去的自己從未出現過，也不可能親手殺死那一部分的自己。
希望他可以終有一日付出真心，然後被人無情踐踏。啊，說錯了，不好意思。我重新來一遍，我是說，希望他可以終於有一日付出真心，並得到同樣的真情回報，獲得屬於自己的幸福。
我想我又在道德綁架了。沒有人可以評判別人的生活，也沒有人可以真正理解他人的心路歷程和所做的選擇。哪怕我現在拿起了筆，擁有了一定程度的話語權，我也不是上帝。
總之，還是讓我們祝他幸福吧，不管是繼續浪子回頭，還是繼續瀟灑，都祝他快樂無憂，祝他健康自由。
～～～～～～～～～我是突然知道新消息的分界線～～～～～～～～～～～～～
小歪說，“可是，我高中時候並沒有收到二順子的情書。”
作者有話要說：二順子發來的大段英文我就不寫在正文裡占字數了，發在作者有話要說吧。有興趣的小讀者可以看看。
另外我打算規範一下自己的更文時間和頻率，有什麼意見請在評論區告訴我。
放心，故事還有很長，不會很快殺青。謝謝看到這裡的小讀者，謝謝可以陪我走這一段路。
I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper. They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highlands. I never heard of anyone making a 'skeleton', as we were taught at school. In the breaking and remaking, in the timing, interweaving, beginning afresh, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination. A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it. Sometimes the yeast within a writer outlives a book he has written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot fathom the exact outline of the vision before them. For the same reason, writers talk interminably about their own books, winkling out hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them. Of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair. He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore.