When you talk to others about those days of yours, don't you miss them a little bit? Yes, I only have a trace of your longing for me, but it seems so luxurious. This is the ending of an essay describing a teacher.
When I sit in front of the computer alone and look at the QQ that needs to check in every day, I feel a sense of loss.
I just saw our holiday records of playing poker in front of the computer together, and there was a kind of suppressed pain in my heart. I really didn't know that falling in love with you would be such a deep disaster.
After being away for so long, I haven't cried. I used to wish countless times that I could crouch in the corner of the street, watching people come and go, and cry out loud. But I always couldn't get my wish. Tears have become a luxury.
Dear, as of today, I still care about you. However, you let go of me and blew me away like a dandelion.
I am used to being spoiled by you. You suddenly entered my fragile youth without any warning, and then selfishly left. I told myself that since there is no more love, I need dignity. But for you, I have lost even my dignity. You were too good to me before, so much so that I can't move on now.
Yes, I am so mature. In terms of family background or experience, I have no hope at all.
The happiest things in the past have now become the most torturous executioners. Those travel records are like opium, urging me to look at them over and over again. The more I look, the sadder I feel, and I can only cover my nose and mouth with my hands.
When I knew you were in trouble, we were almost strangers. But I still cared, and I tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep. Later, I gave you all the hard-earned money I earned from working part-time jobs, and my roommates said I was a first-class fool. How could I not know that I shouldn't have given it to you, but I couldn't let it go. I couldn't bear to see you in trouble. I don't ask for your gratitude, but I don't want you to despise me either.