I used to like a person, and even the words he had written were quietly preserved, and then when I grew up, I found this practice ridiculous. Years later, thinking of him, although it is still the silly heartbeat at the beginning, in the end we are like strangers. Once in a while, when they met in the crowd, they were no longer familiar with each other, and looking at him and his happiness, it was like a breeze blowing, but the taste of first love had never changed.
