All stories have a beginning, which either amazes the years or makes them quiet for a while.
My story begins at the end of the summer when I was 17 years old...
When I was 17 years old, I didn't catch the cicada, so I couldn't catch the whole summer; I never kissed anyone's face, so I couldn't live with anyone forever.
Intention: Life is in a hurry, we meet and miss again. I thought you were my beloved, but in the end I found you were no more than a passerby. Looking back on the past, who did I meet and what stories did I have? From being an immature young man to growing up calmly, whose passerby am I, and who is my passer-by?