I often dream about it.

First love is like a lemon with a slightly sour and tantalizing smell. Some people will eventually choose honey, and some people will turn the smell in their memories into perfume, which they can’t help but reminisce about. Some people have already remembered lemon as mango. And which one do you belong to? Do you still remember your first love? And his appearance.

Some people’s first love is clear and acne-burning, while some people’s first love is hazy and vague, like self-hypnosis. Some people don’t even know who is their first love. . And I can't tell which faction I belong to. There was just an outline of a boy in white, always clearly hidden in a corner. The first time I dreamed about it, it was already ten years ago.

The person I was ten years ago was perhaps the two years when I was the "most beautiful girl". After I stopped exercising, I became rounder and longer, and the names and descriptions my elders and friends used to describe me changed from "I'm so pretty, with a pointed nose and a painted face." to "Your fat girl." As long as you don't wear pants inside out, it's considered normal if you don't wear red and green. As a top student, he entered the best key high school, but he was inexplicably decadent.

I don’t know why, but in that cement-gray time, we met. It was like going out blindfolded and encountering a grand and exquisite aerial show. I chose liberal arts classes. On the first day of class placement, a tall, thin boy in white clothes came in from the back door of the classroom. He had a fair oval face, a delicate nose, and eyebrows that were a little curved and thick. I don’t know why, but at that moment my face looked like Lit by a blue and gentle flame.

Love at first sight, this simple and direct emotion, is as white as a piece of drawing paper that has not been written. He was sitting in front of me, to the right. He is a playful boy who has no intention of studying seriously. Sometimes, I would wander off during class. When my thoughts were running wildly, I drew some small pictures on the draft paper, handsome cartoon faces, eyes of different shapes...

There were a few colored pencils in the pencil case, but one day, I Found one of them missing. And often when I come to class, I will find that the messy draft paper I drew has been turned over. I didn’t take it too seriously, and I had no interest in getting to the bottom of it. After all, I was just a girl with extremely simple thoughts, not a black-faced Mr. Bao. Besides, paintings of handsome guys and beauties with crooked eyes can still be admired by others. Eyes, who are already particularly big-eyed, heroic and tasteful.

Suddenly one day, I accidentally went to the classroom early and saw him sitting in my seat. When he saw me coming in, he pretended to be indifferent and sat in the wrong seat, lowering his head and blushing, quietly Sit back in your seat. I am the Chinese class representative, and it is my job to collect everyone’s weekly diaries. And every time, I couldn't help but want to take a look at what he wrote, but I told myself that it was wrong to peek.

Once, with his heart beating like a thief who had committed a crime for the first time, he put his weekly diary into a small garden with a rockery and a fish pond, and opened it with an absurd and sacred mood, which was probably the case. Slightly perfunctory content that teachers can see. There are no big pictures, no troubles and confusions, and no me. Every day, it was just quiet for me, and we barely said a few words. Many times, passing by each other is like the inner monologue of a mime.

It’s just that his white clothes are very bright. Every time he passes by, his heartbeat is forgotten at the second when they are closest to each other.

But when everyone else left, we were still sitting in the classroom, quietly without saying a word. There were only two of us left in the crowded classroom. The afternoon wind blew in gently, and the lively boys and girls on the playground outside the window were laughing and playing, and the pure songs of youth were broadcast over and over again. We sat quietly, watching the sunset as the orange-colored clothes were secretly dragged into the night.

We have spent countless such quiet days. His shirts of different colors and patterns, and the different and random splashes of sunlight every day, are just so quiet, and youth has become a picture of green color. colored lead painting.

It has been ten years. No encounter, no trace. The strands of fragrance in the memory are vaguely present, like memories, and like a delusion, blooming in a dream. Dreaming is like a beautiful picture in a movie that takes less than a second or two and is calculated frame by frame. You are sitting in the seat in front of me on the right, and the summer wind is blowing in the classroom where there are only you and me. You gently turn to look at me, and the dazzling and warm light in the most beautiful years has traveled through ten years.