In many stories, the perfect ending always leaves a trace of imperfection in order to be called perfect. For some people, this imperfection is doomed to tragedy.
It's summer again, what kind of summer is it?
Maybe it was the gray sky, maybe it was the bright sunshine, but to her, it really didn't matter.
For a long time, she remained like this, continuing to fumble forward with her hands, unable to see the sun, the color, or the man beside her.
Maybe he was happy, but he was too selfish. He used this method to keep this brown-eyed woman by his side for several years.