The seventeen-year-old classroom, the camphor trees spreading over the window sill and the noisy chirping of cicadas hide a secret love that I dare not express openly. I have stared at the same boy countless times out of the corner of my eye, with the letters filled with my heart buried in the depths of my pencil case, and the confession I had prepared during the chance encounter was finally swallowed deep in my heart. When we were young, we were timid and reserved. We always thought that the summer was long and the days were long, but we got separated in a hasty graduation. Many years later, when the same evening breeze blows, I understand that the most sour regret of youth is that my heart is full of joy, and no one knows it from beginning to end.
