In the first year of high school, she held my hand and said, "Your hands are so cold."
When she was a sophomore in high school, she asked me "Does he like me?" And asked me to read their chat history.
In her senior year of high school, she said, "You are so good to me, like family."
From then on, I locked her in my diary.
Read it over and over again, write it over and over again.
Tell yourself, that's not her, that's not her.
But every day when I wake up, she is still in front of me.
Later she asked: "Do you like me?"
I didn't reply.
It's not that I don't like it anymore.
It's too late.
The girl I liked is gone long ago.
Afterwards, no matter how good she was, she was never the same as before.
But I still love her.
Love her who is no longer there.
This is a disease.
I know.
But I can't cure it.
Intention: Love is both a disease and a medicine, growing up in farewell