The air in the studio is soft, and the fragrance of cinnamon spreads across the palette.
The young man secretly drew the person he liked and hid it in the golden wheat field.
The fingertips touch, the breath intertwines, the turpentine and the scent of soap locust form a gentle web.
A stroke of sunset, a touch of wheat awn, two drops of blurred oil paint,
It is the heartbeat that young people dare not express, but cannot hide.
(I just wrote it out of sheer interest. Don't delve into the logic. Don't scold the characters. Of course, you can scold me.)
(If you don't like it, you can just leave it. Thanks for stopping. The same applies to other articles)
Concept: A young man's thoughts are hidden in the painting, tenderness is the most silent confession