Lin Ting went to see him during countless topsy-turvy nights. After the performance, she went to see him with tired eyes but clear eyes. She sat next to him on the piano bench, looked up at the stars through his eyes, and listened to his stories about the Milky Way and Mars, Poseidon or Venus born in the sea, Bach and Liszt, Hegel or Kant.
Under the boundless lonely starry sky, music and philosophers can most fascinate girls.
She turned her face and leaned into his ear innocently and passionately: "I love you - my love follows you like a star."
Meng Xingshi was silent and turned away slightly.
"No, listen - you are too smart... Too young."
Meng Xingshi could not forget Lin Ting's porcelain-white but fragile look like Ophelia wearing a wreath on her head when she first arrived at Meng's house. He could not forget Lin Ting standing by the piano and calling him back. When he turned to leave, the notes of "Skylark" fell on his fingertips. He could not forget the girl who ran away early in the morning and the twenty-seven kisses she left in the summer.
Intention: My love follows you like a star
