Sitting alone in front of the window in the afternoon, holding a cup of fragrant green tea, I gently turned over the yellowed title page of the diary, and the slightly dry handwriting exuded the fragrance of ink. I clearly remember the last time I wrote in my diary was last month. It was still early spring, the branches had not yet grown dark green leaves, and the sunflowers were not as blooming as they are now. However, the memory is finally blurred, and the story in the diary will have an ending. Take a sip of hot tea and slowly melt those sweet memories into the bitter and sweet branches and leaves, letting the taste of this moment condense the fragrance of memory forever. Facing the beautiful youth, is it full of joy or fantasy? I think in my world, the so-called youth is just a long rainy season. I forget when it started, and I am not sure when it will stop.