This is an alternative story, this is a period of life. Read on slowly and you will get what you want.
The seven years have been a humid plum rain, which swelled my promise and wrinkled my heartbeat. He is a pendulum hanging between childishness and maturity, warming himself with hot oaths but always letting reality freeze. In those mornings and evenings when they were in love and fighting each other, the mist on her eyelashes was the steam from the oden cooking in the convenience store, and it was also the tenderness of his repeated burns and healing.
When the breakup fell gently like a faded note, he was shocked to realize that every perfunctory late night contained the fragrance of her hair when she tiptoed to turn off the light. Memories suddenly become sharp - the expired apology cake in the refrigerator, the rose three days late, the rough edges curled up at the corners of the repentance letter. It turns out that all "definitely next time" have become the end of fate.
At this moment, he stood in the time gap and looked back. She had already gone away with seven years of starlight, and for the rest of his life, he only had to repeatedly wipe away the morning light that had been let down. This is a story about clumsy love and silent miss. Those unspoken "I understand" eventually become the thorn hanging in the throat forever.
