Eighteen years have passed in the blink of an eye. Time, like flowing water, has washed away the past and revealed a new future.

      The dazzling stars and the blazing sun are celebrating your birthday—and so am I, of course. Those dancing, flickering memories are the jade that has belonged only to you for eighteen years. You have always shone in everyone's eyes, and even in the corners no one sees, you still radiate brilliance. I am lucky to have met someone like you.

      I am fortunate to have met someone like you. Even if I wrote a thousand possibilities of encounters until my pen blossomed, I never could have imagined such an ordinary yet breathtaking meeting. I am lucky to be your love. Even if I tried countless times to touch your cheek and then held back, there would still be a passion that a thousand embraces could never satisfy.

      How I wish such passion could always be by my side, just like that line you love to say: "There's still a long way to go."

      Turning eighteen means something extraordinary to everyone; its value cannot be measured by any object. And the art of paper and ink comes closest to capturing that worth. Those precious or trivial memories flow between the lines, and if you ever flip back to these pages someday, perhaps you'll recall the beauty of the past, the present, and the future.

      Perhaps the young man under the blazing sun will once again walk that quiet ancient path he has traveled so many times, yet meet his true love for the first time. Of course, that isn't me—but isn't it me?

To the one I love

August 17, 2023