It was midsummer when I met you.
Cicadas chirping, sun blazing, flowers. You, me, us. All bloom in this season.
I thought that we would reach the end, but the final distance was that I was here and you were far away.
It turns out that I don't know what year or month, when or where, you are like the wind, passing through my limbs and bones, leaving traces.
Concept: Everyone has regrets in their youth, right?