Secret Love Is a Person's Practice

I like a person. For many, many years, he has never accompanied me through the campus paths covered with sycamore leaves. He has never seen my ignorance as a young student. We have never shared the wind, frost, rain, snow, sunset and morning light. Our eyes always cross and separate in the crowd, just like two straight lines that are clearly close at hand in the four-dimensional space, but never intersect. I don't dare to miss the person I like next year and the year after that, but I have no chance to participate in the rest of his life because I don't know if he likes me. I love this person to the core, but I don't know if this person's eyes have ever stayed on me for a moment.