I never have enough scratch paper. It's not because I'm doing math problems diligently, but because I'm always in the gaps between calculations, I unconsciously fill the blank space with tiny symbols—sometimes it's half a star, sometimes it's a crooked basketball, more often than not, it's two letters written and then erased. The tip of the pen rubs repeatedly on the paper until the area becomes hairy, and then I refuse to stop. Those are his initials. The first time I wrote these three letters on scratch paper was in the math class in the first semester of high school. The teacher was deducing function formulas on the blackboard, and the chalk dust fell down, but I stared at the back of his head diagonally in front of me in a daze. His hair was a little soft, and the sunlight filtered in through the window, and you could see the fine fuzz on the ends of the hair. Somehow, I took out my draft book and put down the pen tip. When I realized what I was doing, those two letters were already lying quietly on the page. I was so panicked that I almost threw the pen away, and quickly applied a thick layer of correction fluid. The white paste raised a small patch on the paper, like a secret that couldn't be hidden. Later, I learned a lesson and always folded my draft paper in half and wrote down my thoughts in the crevice after folding. I could only see it when I opened it...
The idea: to use a small carrier to reflect the true nature of youth: using "draft paper", a daily and private item, to materialize the delicate thoughts of a seventeen-year-old crush that "I dare not say but treasure secretly", and use the abbreviations next to the function formulas, the cheering symbols in the gaps and other small details to restore the original emotional appearance of youth that does not need to be vigorous, but is soft and precious enough.