Tangzhi Yubai

In late autumn, the sycamore trees were covered with long childhood. During the noisy seventeen years, Lin Xiaotang's thoughts were always hidden deep in the evening breeze. The sea of ​​people was crowded and there were thousands of eyes. She could only see the clean and cool young Jiang Yubai in her eyes. The young man was silent and restrained, with dull eyebrows, but he would always quietly look in the same direction in a corner where no one was paying attention. The signature hidden on the scratch paper, the peripheral vision of passing by in the corridor, the half of the tenderness separated by the headphones. Those heartbeats that dare not be expressed in words, small and forbearing, run through the entire youth. The sycamore trees fall every year, and the evening breeze is gentle. A branch of Begonia is only given to a boy as bright as the moon.