A small breeze passed through the newly sprouted leaves of the tall sycamore trees on campus, and unknowingly ruffled the hair of several girls. March is always a season worthy of being pretentious. Thinking of this, Ai Shushui seemed to suddenly feel sad, but she still grinned widely. In the days of youth, who didn't have stories that they wanted to let go but couldn't forget; who didn't have a crush on a name that they refused to tell even to death; who didn't have occasional uncontrollable sadness; and who didn't blame youth for the fantasies of those years. Those young stories full of vitality but also bleak, just lying here quietly...