She obviously hated us at first, couldn't fit in with the group, and introduced herself with only one sentence, my name is Meng Yiyang. Without even saying hello first. I thought it was incredible, I always thought that these two sentences were a fixed match. She also doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't jump on a jumping band, doesn't kick a shuttlecock, doesn't hide and seek, and often writes and draws alone in between classes against a thick hard-shell book.
Once I passed by her seat and saw her painting a flower, I don't know what it was, but it was beautiful. She glanced at me and walked away. I didn't make a sound and continued to stand motionless. At this time, the most mischievous boy in the class ran to grab her book, tore off the page, and loudly teased, Come and see the love letter written by Meng Yiyang! The class exploded, and I saw Yang open his mouth and close it, pack up the textbooks on the desk, pick up his bag and walk out of the classroom.
I rushed up and knocked the boy to the ground, wrestling into a mess, and I heard people around me say don't fight, don't hit the teacher. But I couldn't stop, he tugged at my hair, and I had to grab his neckline. He and I stood at the door of the classroom for an afternoon, holding the lump of drawing paper tightly in our hands. He looked at me with hatred.
I didn't understand why my heart was full of justice, as if I had become a hero and saved the world in an instant. The next day, when I spread the crumpled drawing paper on the Yang desk again, I felt very proud, as if I should still have a golden light behind it. Yang looked at me in surprise and asked, "That mark on your face was ripped off yesterday?"
Well, but in the end I won. #情感 #
