I've written all the stories, but I can't dream of you.
Looking back on my memory, I feel confident that I am entangled with your story.
However, after piecing it all together, there are only a few words.
"I'm going to do math competition tonight. Can you help me collect my homework?"
"Okay."
Every word is precious.
Is silent love also love? I persistently piece together your facial features and indulge in your eyes. They are as blue as the sea, but as hot as the sun. I dare not look directly into them.
The spring light of March was like water. I stood at the corner of the spiral staircase and looked at you. The sun fell on your left cheek and outlined a shallow dimple. I liked your smile very much. It was sincere, cunning, but also innocent. You create a painting in the sunlight, and I copy it with my eyes.
Intention: The sycamore tree will answer the unspoken love for us.