Fifteen-year-old Jiang Lan was admitted to County No. 1 Middle School from the town, like a seed blown by the wind into unfamiliar soil.
She met someone. White shirt, as clean as the moon just fished out of the water. He handed her a water glass to shield her from her embarrassment, put a piece of paper filled with pronunciation essentials in her book, and put a brand new book of wrong answers into her drawer. He didn't say anything, but she understood everything.
Throughout the autumn, Jiang Lan secretly looked at him. Look at the small mole on the back of his neck, look at the light going on and off in front of his window, look at the three or four centimeters distance between their shoulders when they took the photo. The school's albizia flowers bloomed for a season and then faded. Pink pom-poms fell on his shadow, and fell on her every breath-holding gaze.
She never said it. I just looked at the out-of-reach moonlight from a distance, for a long time, with my whole heart filled with sadness. Flowers bloom silently, and so does love.
Intention: growth