It still felt strange to bump into her again after half a year. Her eyebrows had not changed, her attire had not changed—I caught a glimpse of her headband and the color of her lip gloss—and her natural taste had not changed.
But the person standing next to her is no longer the short me who has short legs and can never keep up with her steps, as inconspicuous and slow as a lame cat, but a girl who can hold her shoulders and walk side by side with the wind at her feet. She has a good appearance and a figure, exuding an enviable light from head to toe.
It had been so long since I last saw her that I forgot what expression to use to ignore her as much as possible.
Conception: