We used our huge love to fill the fantasy and hope of youth, not afraid of pain or injury, just because of our bravery and our youthful dreams. We only believed that everything in the world was beautiful. We used love, fabricated love, imagined love, greedy love, faked love, hurt love, destroyed love, and then buried ourselves with righteousness. Like love, we were deeply rooted in the earth, unable to see the sun or the future.
The desks in the classroom are still neat, the hallway is still filled with the faint smell of books, and we can still vaguely hear the sound of reading and the slightly jerky confessions, promising the pure love between us and the rest of our lives. We are wearing slightly yellowed school uniforms, holding thick chemical formula exercises in our hands, looking up at the branches and leaves of the sycamore tree swaying in the wind, playing different notes in different seasons. It is still the land of Yaoshui, the same French plane trees, the same Yaoshui River, the same teaching building, the same love... But they are already old, and their lives are disappearing day by day with the weathering of the years. We no longer fantasize, no longer have hope for love, looking at the shadow of our past, maybe we can only say that everything is "once".
Everything floats along the trickle of the Yaoshui River to all the places we can dream of. We helplessly watch our shadows gradually become microcosms with the flow of the water. We are helpless because... The fleeting years under the skirt no longer exist...