In the midsummer of that year, the cicadas kept chirping, and the boy in white and a crisp green plum shattered my entire youth.
Our hearts fluttered in front of the desk, held hands under the street lamp, and agreed on the future next to the exercise book. Loved, hoped for, promised, but ultimately lost to mountains and seas, jet lag and unexpected parting.
Later I met many people, some looked like him, some looked like him, but some looked like him, but none of them were him.
It wasn't until many years later that I realized that that turning around was not a temporary farewell, but a permanent farewell.
The rest of my life is long, and I have no new stories. I can only hold on to old memories, year after year, and miss a young man who will never come back.
Purpose: I prefer to write about the sourness and regrets of youth, using gentle words to express the heartbeat of youth and the difficulties of aging.