Youth is the wind that sweeps across the wilderness, carrying the unnamed throbbing of young people. Those years that are called "first love" are the dandelions growing wildly in the cracks of the desks, the paper planes outside the playground fence that refuse to look back, and the infinitely stretched shadows under the street lights late at night - so free that it makes people panic, and so pure that it is almost painful.
Cheng Yuchuan and Lin Miao once shared the same pair of headphones on the top floor of the library, allowing Bach's fugues and the chirping of cicadas in the parasol trees to resonate for eternity; Li Haoyang and Zheng Xiaoran's bicycle tracks filled the entire Binjiang Road, and the hem of his white shirt fluttering in the back seat still flutters in a summer evening. Like all young people who believe in "forever", they use moonlight to measure the blueprint of the future, and outline poetry and distance in the smoke of cheap food stalls.
But time is always good at writing vows into flashbacks. When the wedding dress replaced the bachelor's uniform, when the firewood, rice, oil and salt soaked the ink on the letterhead, the kisses received in the rain of parasol trees and the missed hugs on the graduation stage all became cracked specimens in the memory museum. Not every pounding of the heart can be converted into morning and dusk together, just like not every gardenia can survive the cold winter.
This story does not intend to weave a fairy tale, but only wants to wash out the original colors of youth in the darkroom of time: those reckless but hot yearnings, those self-righteous eternities, those heartbeats and tears that make us as adults still reach out to touch the void when we dream back at midnight. When the yellowed wedding invitation meets the diary deep in the drawer, we will eventually understand that regret is the gentlest sign of growth.
Motto: Love will conquer all in the end