When we were sixteen or seventeen years old, we struggled together, struggled, cried, and laughed... I think the meaning of being seventeen is the note secretly stuffed into the palm of my hand, the quiet quarrels in the self-study class, the look back after scoring a goal on the basketball court, and the wind whistling in my ears when I ran across the platform with my backpack on my back regardless of other people's eyes, and you who are looking forward to waiting for me in the future. The aloof academic master in the eyes of others, but his appearance changes in front of girls. "Do you understand? If you don't, I'll teach you." "I'll finish this set of questions tonight and I'll tell you tomorrow." "Write me a classmate note." "No." "That was written by someone who was separated..." "Thank you." Awkward two-way secret love, a twists and turns and bizarre process, the passage of time, who knows the final result?
Intention: We, sixteen years old, spend our flowery years fighting together, struggling, crying, laughing...