There was an extremely dazzling young man who broke into my silent world like a midsummer shower. I wanted to spend a long time walking into his eyes step by step, but on the day of separation, I discovered that the distance from the back row to the third row of the classroom was farther than 1,300 kilometers.
His absent figure under the magnolia tree, the chirping of cicadas in midsummer that made my heart palpitate, and his majestic appearance under the sun became the frozen scene at the end of the dream. I saved up millions of thoughts to penetrate the cold night and returned to my hometown all the way back. That night, heavy snow suddenly fell in the hot town, the wind howled in my ears, and I couldn't hear my heartbeat.
The glass reflected our overlapping shadows, but I didn't say that I came back specifically for him, and he refused to openly admit that he missed me. He didn't say anything under the dim light, and he just looked at me quietly, smiling just like he did back then.
When the gardenia-scented letter and Zhuangzi's fable fell at the same time in the late night after graduation, I finally understood that his responses hidden on the back of the candy wrappers in those years, and the heartbeat I wrote in the cracks of the diary, are codes that will never fade in the long river of time. It turns out that regret is two straight lines that finally saw each other's missed paths after they intersected.
Intention: If feelings have true meaning, let each other become better versions of themselves
