If You Are Sunny

He, the boy blooming in the sun, said to her arrogantly, I am waiting for you, waiting for you to come and hold my hand, because my hand is only stretched out for you. She, the little gardenia that overflows in the south of the Yangtze River, chases the traces he left, just for that sentence, I will wait for you. . . When he and she were young, they were ignorant and throbbing like the youth that had not faded away, and they were hot and dazzling like the blooming red. . . However, when they met eight years later, he and she could only be two parallel lines separated by each other, drifting apart, going in opposite directions, reaching the end, but not as good as the moment when they looked back. . . When the lead has faded, when the dreams have fallen into bloom, time has long faded away from tenderness, and distance has long worn away the oath. After all these years, for whom are the tears shed? For whom is the hand held? I only wish: If you are well, it will be sunny!