Before the high school entrance examination, I used the most delicate and beautiful words and words in my diary to write everything about him and me. There was a moment when he seemed to have taken a bouquet of milky white mist that had gone through a long, oppressive night, and came back to me not far away. Thinking about it now, all the details of this romantic fantasy in the diary at that time were as beautiful as the candid morning and kiss between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. The aroma of that bunch of flowers is what I long for and look forward to most.
So in that very short relationship, when the first year of high school was just beginning, when the nine homework mountains were pressing down on me, I did what I felt was the best way to express my love. It took me a month to write a thin book of "love notes", or to record our distance and thoughts over the years, those pitiful and very short appointments and intimacy, as his birthday present.
I rarely insist on writing this kind of thing, especially in which I poured a lot of my days and nights into it, implicit and joyful sincerity. He was the switch of all my trust and affection.
Now that I think about that time, I really had the courage and warm feelings to abandon everything, even though it was wrong, even though I would not necessarily have such stupidity and impulse to write such words again.
I don't know where that "Notebook of Love" is now. Has it been dusted by its owner long ago?
If it's still there, I'd really like to see it again.
"My biggest regret is that your regret is about me"
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