In a novel written when I was a teenager, the overbearing male protagonist, who always talks about love and is clingy and does nothing but love, came to my world, and he said that I was his heroine.
As a social worker in my twenties, I just thought this person was naive, just like my teenage self who naively believed in the existence of pure love.
But he seems to be getting cute.
She went out on a rainy day and sprained her ankle. He put clothes on her and carried her home without saying a word.
Even the freezing rain can't stop the speed of body temperature transfer.
She bought so many things online that one of her handles was red. He took it easily. He was only curious about what she bought. He would not point at her and tell her how much she had bought, how much she had spent, and what useless things she had bought.
She stopped and turned to look at him, finding that his eyes had been staring at her, and she could meet his eyes when she turned around.
Only then did she realize that it was a beautiful dark blue color.
She had to admit that her teenage self had never left her body, and she was still moved by the same people.
How could you not be moved?
That was the male protagonist who had all the good things she could think of.
But he was even better than she thought.
How could anyone like it so straightforwardly?
He said, it's not like, it's love.
Intention: Loving others is like growing a flower, if you care for it patiently, it will bloom.