I used to want to share everything with you, half of you and half of me and half of you and half of the iced watermelon and cola-flavored popsicles in summer, half of you and half of me in roasted sweet potatoes and thick scarves in winter, half of you and half of me, the front and back seats of the bicycle, a table in the classroom, an umbrella on a rainy day, half of you and half of me. I even want to share half of my joys, sorrows and joys with you, whether you are willing or not. Now I don't want to give you anything more, but you stubbornly give me your half.