The cicada shell still hangs from the branch where it was left. Sunlight shines through its translucent wings, scattering tiny patches of light, just like the way you looked when you smiled in my memories. But the moment my fingertip touches it, the shell cracks with a brittle snap, just like the words we never got to finish, broken into pieces the wind cannot even gather.
The cicada shell on the branch still clings to it, as if waiting for the rendezvous that never came. The traces of summer wind still linger on its husk, but it will never hear the cicadas sing again. Just like me, standing right where I was, still waiting for you, the one who said, “See you at summer’s end.” The regret etched into the shell’s delicate patterns grows deeper and deeper.
