It's a Pity That I Didn't Meet You at the Best Time

The yellowed notes are mixed with too many stories, and what I want to write is from here. The memory of a teenager is always very good, but I can't remember what I looked like when I was young, but I remember that winter and summer. For the rest of the memories, I need to recall and think from the yellowed photos, notes, and old things that have been sealed in the box under the bed. I hold the school uniform of my youth tightly, shake it gently, and what shakes off is my memory. When I open the back, I see the names of my friends and lovers.