The damp cigarette, the nameless letter, the street you walked on, I loved your light and breezy moments.
Falling in love with a prodigal seems to be a particularly innocent and thrilling thing in youth. My understanding of you is limited to a few fleeting encounters with you.
I heard that you love to attract people. The number on the back of your jersey is 7, and the page in your circle of friends is always blank.
I like wearing black hooded sweatshirts and light-colored jeans with air force.
There are always girls accusing you of being ruthless, and there are always people posting messages asking for your contact information. I heard that you often hang out in smoky bad places after class, and you have won a grand slam in previous physics competitions. Countless people hate you, countless people love you, but you only leave a figure on the street corner that is too late to touch.
I secretly bought the cigarettes you like to smoke.
I sent you an anonymous letter on the day the college entrance examination ended, and I walked through the street you often walk on.
I like your sense of contrast, your deceptive appearance and the mole under your right eye. I like your wantonness, your temper, and your arrogance.
I compare your appearance to a mountain, and the real you underneath the appearance to the irresistible destructiveness of a mudslide. I compare your skin to a tree, and you under the skin to a sharp thorn, which cannot be approached. I am fascinated by your contrast, just like I am fascinated by the kitten's footprints on the ground after a rainy day.
Only the wind knows that I have always loved you in the opposite direction.
Purpose: High school crush