The sycamore leaves rustled for three years, he listened for three years, and she wrote for three years.
Seven years ago, they were classmates who had never spoken to each other. He sits in the second row by the window. The pens in his pencil case are arranged by color, with the pencil always on the far left. She sat in the third row from the bottom against the wall, borrowed the same book, wrote a word on the library card, and then waited for him to return a word.
Seven years later, at a class reunion, he put a star made of a paper clip into the palm of her hand. "This one is yours," he said. "In my senior year of high school, I only knew that you were avoiding me. I didn't know why."
She clutched the star and was speechless. She avoided him throughout her senior year, not because she didn't like him anymore, but because she wasn't ready yet. When he returned the star to her, she threw it into the jewelry box. She didn't take the pen he gave her. He went to the train station in her city to buy a ticket and then returned it. He finished writing her a letter but did not send it. He knows everything. He has been waiting.
A story about sending letters using a library card. A story about breaking paper clips into stars. A story about "not ready yet".
The leaves of the sycamore tree fall and turn green again, and turn green and fall again. It took her three years to hear him, and it took him four years to wait for her to hear him.
Purpose: I don't write about the stormy waves, but only about when the leaves of the sycamore tree fell, and someone happened to hear it. Two people with their own gaps - she only gives but dare not accept, he is used to keeping a distance and dare not expect. It took three years to hear each other, and four years to learn to expect and be expected. It turns out that there is some growth, which is as far as the sycamore leaves falling from the branches to the palms of hands.