In the midsummer of seventeen years old, the sun shone like gold through a sieve of sycamore leaves, the pile of draft papers in the studio was higher than a person's height, and Lin Zhixia's paint tray always contained half a piece of melted lemon yellow. She thought that by catching the chirping of cicadas, she could keep the whole summer, but she didn't know that the pain in her heart had already turned the passion of youth into faded old film. Jiang Yanci's draft paper was filled with physics formulas, and there was also a secret love that he dared not say out loud; Lu Xingran's racing track was fast, but he couldn't catch up with an unexpected farewell. When the lights in the studio went out for the last time, and when the flag at the end of the track fell, they understood: some heartbeats were the pain that couldn't be hidden in the chirping of cicadas, and the wind that couldn't be held back in summer. We once wrote each other's names under the plane trees, and in the surging crowds, we walked each other into memories.
Purpose: To commemorate the passionate and regretful heartbeats of youth, and to pay tribute to those summers that did not make it to the end.