You Are My Hidden Heartbeat

When the chirping of cicadas makes the midsummer long, Zhang Ling always used to sit by the window in the classroom, looking past the layers of books and gently landing on the tall back in the front row. Hao Zi. This name took root in the vague memory of kindergarten, sprouted in the ignorant heartbeat of elementary school, and by high school, it had grown into a quiet but wildly growing vine, entangling her breath with a cautious sweetness and astringency.