My eighteen years old is hidden in the details of four girls.
On page 32 of the library poetry collection, there are two names lined up side by side; the 45-degree angle on the left side of the basketball court is the exclusive passing position marked for her; and under the dark blue pen mark on the wrist of her deskmate, there is a gap that only she can fill.
Birds made of folded aluminum foil perch between the lines of poetry, and silent vines creep around the edges of the tactical diagrams. When the transfer student Jiang Lin broke in with the observation protocol and tried to quantify everything, I discovered that those uncalculated sights, touches and heartbeats had already made this ordinary summer impossible to escape.
Concept: The value of feelings lies in experience and growth