Someone asked me what summer is. I think of the first time I looked up and met you. I think of the countless looking backs and countless eyes that followed. I think of the voices chatting until the early morning, saying good night to each other, the road we walked together, and the screenshots of the entire photo album.
I seem to vaguely feel the spring wind. It's almost the season when we meet again. Will we meet again? I'm talking about the you in my memory.
Intention: be