In the 21st century, in this peaceful era, there was one girl who was different.
She had someone she liked. He was incredibly handsome, the kind of boy all the girls at school were always chasing. Sometimes they were very close, yet at other times they seemed far apart.
And that was exactly how things were.
All along, between them, there was no need for old-fashioned things like confessions or love letters. All they needed was an unspoken understanding. A glance or a gesture was enough to tell them what the other was thinking.
She was a girl who laughed and joked around, though sometimes she could be a little melancholy. She was always imagining herself as a character from novels she had read, wondering if she might be as bold, fragile, gentle, or indifferent to the world as the heroines in those stories. Unfortunately, she wasn't. Around the people she cared about, she was cheerful; around her classmates, she was meticulous; and around guests, she was courteous. Because she had to do her best.
He was a cold, aloof boy. At school, other people were the ones who sought him out. He would never go looking for anyone outside of class. But in front of her alone, he showed his helplessness. Even his eternally icy expression would thaw, revealing a hint of a smile, a touch of helplessness, or even a trace of anger. He could never manage to be serious around her.
One day, she would fail.
In front of him.
She always did.
I suddenly remembered the first time I read romance novels. It's not that the author wrote badly! It's just that I suddenly felt a pang of nostalgia. The purpose of literature is to create dreams, so let's stop arguing about whether it's "sweet" or not. Every story has its target age group; if you don't like it, it just means you've matured. Your reason tells you you can't accept this dream anymore. Keep going, author! Keep growing; you'll write dreams that everyone can accept.