He was the secret I most wanted to hide in my school uniform pocket when I was eighteen.
It's the clear-jointed hands when writing on the blackboard on the podium, it's the lamp that fell on the corner of my desk after evening self-study, it's the name that I wrote down in my diary countless times and crossed out again.
Everyone said that it was treasonous for a female student to have a crush on a male teacher.
But I insisted on breaking the calmness in his eyes with the most intense gaze in his class; in the deserted corridor, with the trembling voice, I said the words "I like you" that I had hidden for three years.
When the red thread of taboo was torn off by my own hands, when his hesitation collided with my paranoia, was this secret love destined to be fruitless a moth flying into a flame, or a butterfly emerging from its cocoon?
