Wait for You to Speak First

At the North District Stadium in September, a bottle of iced black tea rolled to her feet, breaking Su Wan'er's entire youthful heartbeat. The ambiguity of freshman year is hidden in the sweet and sour pork in the cafeteria, hidden in the notes in the third row of public elective courses, hidden under the tilted black umbrella on rainy days. They tried it through a layer of gauze, but no one dared to take the first step. Two disconnections, two reunions. She used a trumpet to hide her thoughts, but he saw through it at a glance; he loved her so much that he saved up for two years before he dared to say it. Later, the evening breeze blew across the court again, and the boy wearing No. 11 Jersey stood in the light and told her: After going around twice, the person I want to hold is always you. From the first sight of the stadium in late summer to the reunion when the magnolia flowers bloom. They chatted late into the night, handed over warm soy milk, got caught in the same rain, and had an awkward cold war for two spring and autumn years. It turns out that the luckiest thing in youth is that the person you have a crush on is secretly waiting for you to get close to you. The orange candy is still sweet, the evening breeze is still soft, and you are still mine.