When the wind blows, I will open my eyes desperately, and there will be traces of tears sliding down my cheeks. Holding my head high, that is my last self-esteem as a humble person. You say that I will always be so stubborn, like a wandering silly child, hiding in a small closed corner, insisting on my stubbornness. You say that I should be like the wind, free and uninhibited. I should not be a heartbroken child. You say that I should be as fresh and open as my name. You always say my name repeatedly with a slightly hoarse voice, you call, Qingyang, Qingyang...
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