In 2008, the first drop of rain fell from the sky, flooding the entire summer, including Zhao Han's simplest love words that had not yet been spoken and sparkling with stars, as well as too many long stories that could not be finished in words. Zhao Han didn't know if he would still see Liang Hao wearing thick clothes, hiding behind time every winter in the future, with clear eyebrows and clear lips.
If time hadn't always been so lazy and the footprints so long, all Zhao Han's little thoughts for Liang Hao would not have spread to the other side of the sky, spreading into dark blue; in this casual year, everything happened quietly, like a cricket hiding in the corner, whimpering quietly and stubbornly, like soil, with moist warmth.
It was no longer possible to explain it in simple words. When the wind in his ears disturbed all his moods, thinking about yesterday's running footprints on the beach and those scarred young people, then, this year, Zhao Han realized: It turns out that time will make people come to wrong conclusions. It turns out that not all emotions need time to slowly ferment. It turns out that some feelings can really burn in an instant and last a lifetime.