In my first year of junior high school, I was moved to the front row by my class teacher, and I became my deskmate with her, who was as quiet as a green radish. My brother said he liked her, so I patted my chest and said I wanted to help. Until that winter, she put her school uniform on me who was freezing, patted my back gently and said "Tell him to slow down", and my heart skipped a beat.
From then on, we tickled each other to refresh ourselves in class, shared pills and hot milk when we had stomachaches, and always turned the ten-minute walk into half an hour when we stopped by after school. She smiled and showed two small tiger teeth. I pretended not to care, but I chewed up the four words "I like you" and swallowed them for three years.
In the third grade of junior high school, she gave me a bottle of stars folded by herself; when we reunited in high school, we were still separated by classes. Later, she transferred to another school and disappeared like the wind into the world that I could touch. Six years later, her name is still lying quietly at the top of my WeChat account, like an old bookmark, sandwiched between the thickest pages of my youth. I never dared to ask, "Have you ever liked me?" Because I was afraid that if I told you, even the remaining star would be extinguished.
Until late one night, I opened a star in the bottle, and on it was her beautiful handwriting: "You must be happy."
Some people appear not to be together, but to let you know that there was such a grand and silent love in your youth.
Concept: The deepest love in youth is often not a brave confession, but the words you choose to swallow for fear of losing, and the WeChat pin that you are always reluctant to cancel.