Lin Xiyao's film camera contains the secrets of the entire autumn.
She photographed the stagnant water on the playground, the pothos in the cafeteria, and the gray-blue hoodie on the clothesline at five in the morning.
Until the September wind blew the ginkgo leaves to her feet, and also blew the boy in the hoodie into her viewfinder.
She thought it was a chance encounter, but in a photo, she discovered a gaze hidden behind the camera that never looked away.
The wind will take away the fallen leaves, but those heartbeats hidden in focus, those waiting that started a long time ago, are all captured by the camera for her.
(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 swipe it away. Thanks for stopping. The same applies to other articles)
Concept: The tenderness running in both directions will eventually be frozen by time and the camera.