Many years later, when I hear the harsh but enthusiastic chirping of cicadas again, I still can't help but think of him.
July when I was sixteen years old was a noisy and vast midsummer, with lush sycamore branches, green leaves, and noisy cicadas.
The sun is shining brightly in the afternoon, and the wind seems to want to stop.
"I think I've seen it somewhere before. It's called Cicada Shigure."
"Really?"
When they are side by side, the throbbing will spread.
"Well, it is said that at the end of summer, the cicadas want to burn their remaining life and make their last chirping sound, just like the falling rain."
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Summer is my love letter to him, and he is the gift summer gives me.
The cicadas chirp like falling rain, every word and every word, bit by bit, spread out into ripples.
He said the breath of summer was almost gone.
He said he wanted to experience a few more summers with me.
Our common summer.
·First person campus slow-heating cookies
Intention: More than just July
