Jiangzhou Art Academy has four dormitories: Lin Yu from the Chinese Department, Jiang Che from the Physical Education Department, Xu Zhiyi from the Journalism Department, and Su Wan from the Fine Arts Department.
In the autumn of their freshman year, they watched the sunset on the balcony, cooked hot pot in the living room, and slowly got closer to each other in each other's company. From borrowing notes and helping to buy medicine, Lin Yu and Jiang Che's relationship turned into a relationship where they would huddle on the same bed and talk until dawn. Xu Zhiyi and Su Wan were at the easel and behind the camera, quietly recording each other's appearance with brushes and lenses. The night breeze of 407 witnessed two love stories growing quietly in unknown corners.
But rumors began to spread on campus. Whispers in the cafeteria, anonymous posts on forums, counselors' meaningful conversations. Jiang Che's mother called and cried, asking "Are you abnormal?" Xu Zhiyi's father arranged a blind date and said, "Don't recognize me as your father until you come back." Those eyes came like a tide, flooding the balcony of 407 little by little.
In the summer of their senior year, they cooked their last hot pot meal at 407. Jiang Che said, "I can't let you follow me and suffer criticism all your life," and Xu Zhiyi said, "I can't bear it anymore." The four people toasted to youth, love, and each other who were about to leave.
Ten years later, Lin Yu wrote the story into a book, Jiang Che was working as a physical education teacher in a small town, Xu Zhiyi got married and had children as arranged by his family, and Su Wan opened a small studio in the south. They were all doing okay, but they only occasionally thought of that summer and the night breeze of 407.
Wanfeng still remembers that there were four people standing on the balcony that year. They thought their lives would go on like this.
The evening breeze of 407 will not blow after graduation. I can't bring back that summer.
Intention: Some love existed, even if it breaks up in the end, it is still worth remembering. And remembering itself is a kind of resistance.