The Unfinished Story on My Draft Paper

In the height of summer, with cicadas shrilling, Chen Yanshu’s white shirt fluttered in the breeze.

Lin Wanxing Ran clutched a note damp with sweat. The ink had run, blurring the words: “Chen Yanshu, I like you.”

In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to hand it over.

Some feelings, it turned out, could only linger in the breeze of being seventeen, and on a sheet of draft paper covered with your name.