Time flies by, and I forget who held the small umbrella to block the scorching summer heat. His eyes remain the same, and time flies by. I forget who lifted the tip of the pen, and the thick ink dispersed, but he remains standing. She doesn't understand stories, but she deeply believes that he is a story.
She glanced at him behind the willow tree with resentment and jealousy, turned around and walked indifferently into the late autumn twilight.
He smiled in front of the fork, hesitated restlessly, and walked politely and firmly into the distance not far away.
Dear, it seems that the so-called sunshine, the so-called childhood, the so-called youth, I can tell it as a story.