In the autumn of his senior year in high school, Ziyu's back injury was not getting better, and the physical examination was about to be canceled. He met Lingling at the door of the equipment room who came to borrow a badminton racket. She wore two ponytails, smiled with crooked eyes, and asked him, "Senior, can I borrow a badminton racket here?" That was the first thing she said to him, and it was something he thought of again and again for many years to come.
They were together briefly. At the fence next to the playground, she pushed him over, looked up and said, "I like you." He held her hand under the street lamp and drank the hot soy milk she bought under the osmanthus tree at the school gate. Later, when the epidemic hit, he left school early, failed the physical exam, repeated his studies, switched to liberal arts, was admitted to a normal university, and went to teach in the northwest mountainous area. After several years, they were together again. She appeared. He thought she had forgiven him. He thought she had finally arrived. He thought that those lost days could be slowly made up for in his final days. But can it really be made up for?
In the last days of teaching, she appeared.
