I thought youth was the front of the draft paper, but later I realized that all my thoughts were written on the back, covered by truth, crushed by formulas, and the side that was turned over hurt silently. The spring of seventeen years old is so thin that a gust of wind can blow a person's name into the cracks of the paper and never shake it out. The neck in the front row, the paper handed out, the eyes without reply - it turns out that the most painful secret love is not not being loved, but the whole draft full of your thoughts, which the other person only used to solve a math problem.
Intention: A draft filled with thoughts is finally carefully collected