Jing still remembers Qian Hao who cried to the point of exhaustion for his second uncle. When he was eighteen years old, he could hardly hold back how many times he wanted to hug his thin shoulders. When did it start? Qian Hao stopped smiling brilliantly and cried loudly. His shyness and youthfulness, and the hope shining in his eyes, fell like sycamore leaves in winter. He could smile and roll around in bed with himself. When I look back, I realize how much I missed.
Conception: