In midsummer, when the cicadas were chirping noisily, Chen Yanshu's white shirt was swaying in the wind.
Lin Wanxing clutched the sweat-soaked note, and the writing on the paper was blurred - "Chen Yanshu, I like you."
After all, she didn't dare to hand it over.
It turns out that I like you a little bit, but I can only stay in the wind of seventeen years old and that piece of scratch paper with your name written all over it.
