When they first met, she stood in front of the table and knocked on his desk.
He buried his head in sleep: "Sorry, I don't like you."
Later, he took the trouble to sit next to her.
She said it bluntly: "Do you like me?"
And he confessed: "Yes."
She turned her face away: "I'm sorry, I don't like you."
And then, at the party. Friends ridiculed him for "chasing his wife's crematorium."
He played with the wine glass: "She wants to play, but I can't accompany her."
At ten o'clock sharp, he picked up his coat and left on time. Friends lamented for a while, saying that he was afraid of his wife.
He lowered his head to type and walked out without looking back, leaving only one sentence: "Brother, this is not fear, this is called love."
Concept: Describe the pure love of youth with plain and natural brushwork.