There is the chirping of cicadas hidden in the gaps between desks and chairs, and your name is hidden in my draft book.
Lin Xian was always spinning his pen in math class in a daze. When the sun slanted across his eyelashes, I would scribble the word "Lin" in a strange way, and then smear it into ink balls in a panic.
We were the front and back desks, the numbers next to each other in the monthly exam rankings, the mineral water I would never dare to hand out at a basketball game. Until the day of graduation, I saw that his application form was filled with colleges in the north, and the back of every page of my paper was filled with the unfinished "Lin Yan".
Later, when I was sorting out old books, I discovered that a certain person's draft had been torn in half, revealing half of a sentence he had written in pencil underneath: "Actually, I..."
The writing was repeatedly erased by the eraser, and finally, together with the wind of that summer, it was scattered into the unspoken ending.
Intention: secret love