The seventeen-year-old wind blew through the back window of the classroom and blew his silhouette into the draft paper where I wrote formulas. Chalk dust fell on my shoulders, like a silent snow. I secretly hid half of a diary filled with his name, hid countless heartbeats that were hesitant to speak, and deliberately slowed down my steps on the way to school, thinking that time would be gentle and fulfill all my cautious preferences.
Later, the cicadas stopped chirping and the handwriting on the graduation album dried. We waved goodbye in the sea of people, like all ordinary classmates. The diary was buried in the deepest part of the bookcase, and those unspoken thoughts were eventually dispersed in the unknown youth with the summer evening breeze.
The wind remembers, the clouds remember, only we pretend not to remember.
Everything is fake. Unlike other novels, this novel is more dialogue-oriented. Most of the copywriting in the article comes from the Internet.
