'Seventeen does not refer to my beauty' In the summer when I was seventeen, the chirping of cicadas made the air sticky, and the camphor trees beside the playground were covered with broken shadows. At that time, I always felt that youth should be like what is written in novels - there will be an omnipotent young man like Mr. Juan who will casually finish things off for you when you get into trouble; or you will encounter a human ideal like Sang Yan, turning the long years into tenderness that is unique to you. But my youth was not so dynamic. It wasn't until he was wearing a light blue T-shirt, smiling and reaching out to me that I suddenly understood that some heartbeats never need a script to pave the way. He will sweat profusely on the basketball court, and his ears will turn red when I confess my love; he will remember the red panda brooch that I mentioned casually, and the luminous stars that I have always liked. He is not a perfect protagonist, he will be injured, will flinch, and will not even say goodbye when we say goodbye. In the years that followed, I passed by countless basketball courts and saw more dazzling shots, but I never met a boy who could make me stand in the stands with my heart beating so fast it felt like I was about to break my chest. He was like the strongest wind that summer, which lifted up the clothes of my entire youth, but when I turned around, I planted regret into a towering tree in my heart. It turns out that not all youth has to be perfect. The clearest stroke in my prime is the male protagonist that I will miss and regret throughout my life.
