My name is Wen Yining.
In my second year of high school, I lived in the Xing family and secretly fell in love with Xing Mobai. I collected the scraps of paper he threw away, drew his back, and spent three years performing a one-man show.
Until he said in public: "She's just here to stay, don't think too much about it."
After the college entrance examination, I ran away to the southernmost university and locked that humble secret love in an iron box.
When we met again eight years later, he was the client and I was the designer. I smiled politely, as if to a stranger.
But he blocked me in the corner with red eyes: "Wen Yining, teach me how to show you my heart so that you will believe it?"
Later, I found a yellowed painting among his old things—it was thrown away when I was seventeen. On the back is his handwriting eight years late: "She seems to like osmanthus. In the first winter, there was an extra person at home, and I started to want to go home for dinner."
It finally snowed in Nanxun.
That person who was lost in midsummer, this snow paid for him.
Concept: The essence of secret love is the grand growth of a person in silence.