The first time I heard your name was in the summer when I was 14 years old. At that time, I silently recorded your strange four-letter name in my heart.
The first time I talked to you was on my 15th birthday. You came with my friends, and you smiled: "Happy birthday."
Later, because I was rebellious against the world's judgment that girls cannot study science, and because I chose science out of luck, we were finally in the same class. I was late on the day of class placement, but as soon as I entered the door, I saw you sitting in the third row by the window. The teacher smiled and joked: "You just happened to be called, so you are here!" The whole class laughed, and you turned and tilted your head to laugh too. Looking upward, through the layers of eyes, I met your smiling eyes.
Once I changed seats, you completely became my back table for the next two years. On that day when I moved seats, you held a pile of books and walked behind me against the light. I turned my head, as if aware of my gaze, and you poked your head out of the pile of books, with those crescent eyes that were so beautiful to see. You spoke softly, with that familiar hoarse voice: "Hello, front table." At this point, every time I turn around, I hope it's you behind me.
Intention: youth