The tip of the pen hovered, the second hand moved under the breath, and the cicadas chirping outside the window suddenly became quiet.
I was writing so hard that I couldn't tell whether the sweat came from my palms or from my forehead.
…
The sixty-day vacation was woven into a never-ending dream.
She squinted her eyes, scratched the red marks on her face caused by the mat, turned over and continued to sleep with her back to the window.
The fan was still rotating, and the wind blowing from time to time lifted the corners of his clothes, causing waves of itching.
She sighed softly, recalling the past three years.
…
Branches extending upward from the window opening.
The desk is never neatly arranged.
There are countless expectations of not attending evening self-study.
She opened her eyes and squinted at the blue outside the window:
"Should I record my youth?"
Purpose: Record youth