It is often said that bread is far more important than love. Is it because material itself is eager for quick success? Or is it because love is inherently pale and feeble? Perhaps, my expectations were too high and I took it too seriously.
In midsummer, a girl grew up in an environment where love was out of the question. Her parents' verbal violence made her fearful of love and family since she was a child. She had no choice but to accidentally become a columnist of an urban emotional column because of her sharp language, but she gradually drifted away on the road to find love.
Along the way, with endless haste, when I stopped and looked back, I figured out the direction I came from. In fact, love is there, right where it started.