FreeDn

 　　Looking back on your school days, do you have any regrets? 　　Before meeting him, I was very unruly and never a good student… 　　I met him in the classroom of my first year of high school. My friend and I were the last to arrive. The teacher looked at us sternly for a long time before saying, “Come in! Next time you’re late, go stand at the back.” Because we were late, my friend and I could only sit in the back, and he happened to sit in front of me. That day was the first day of school, and also the first day I truly met him! It’s been so long that I can’t remember what happened. I only remember him turning around and saying something to me, then giving me a very sunny smile! After that, that smile would appear in my mind every now and then. My attention was always on him, and then all sorts of images would appear in my mind. Time flies 　　, and in the blink of an eye, it was the school’s annual sports meet. In previous years, I would sneak out of school to play during the sports ...

 What else can I say? I don't even know what kind of feeling is love. I'm changing the questions you raised. I'm carefully remembering what you said. Sometimes, I really don't know what to do . How can I ensure I don't miss out on love? I 'm stingy with my love. I'm afraid to give my love. This isn't because I'm heartless. On the contrary , it's because once I'm serious, once I'm in love, I lose the ability to protect myself. I don't like being sensitive , I don't like being weak , I don't like being sentimental, I don't like being pretentious. But once I start to love you seriously, all these flaws that I hate and avoid will follow me like a shadow. I don't like that version of myself. I'm even more afraid that you won't like that version of me. So, I don't think about anything, I don't give anything, I just greedily enjoy the love and tolerance you give me. Only then do I feel safe. Zero-degree water ...

 　　I met you when I was 　　seven. At seven, I was innocent and ignorant. 　　At seven, I resembled you. 　　At seven, I was quiet and reserved. 　　Year after year followed. 　　We spent three autumns together. 　　Twelve quarters, thirty-six months. 　　A total of 1095 days. 　　A change separated us for three years 　　. There was no lingering attachment at parting . 　　Three years later, we reunited. 　　I had changed, no longer innocent and ignorant. 　　You remained unchanged, still silent. 　　I don't know when, 　　I started to love seeing you smile. 　　Even just a slight upturn of your lips 　　can make me happy for half a day. 　　I once saw this passage: 　　A universe with nine planets. 　　Two hundred and four countries 　　. Eight hundred and sixty-six islands. 　　One hundred years is a century. 　　Three hundred and sixty-five days are a year. 　　Sixty seconds are a minute. 　　Meeting you was truly lucky 　　. Yes. 　　Meeting you. 　　It was so good.

 Olive Cooke, a renowned British philanthropist, committed suicide by jumping off a bridge at the age of 92. From the age of 16 until her death, she dedicated over 70 years to charitable work. For decades, she tirelessly sold plastic poppies to raise funds for the Royal British Legion, and donated to more than twenty charities, contributing her entire retirement savings. This compassionate woman should have peacefully passed away amidst blessings and remembrance, but no one expected her to leave this world in such a decisive way. Every month, Olive Cooke received over 200 emails and countless phone calls, not for gratitude, but for requests for donations. People emptied her savings, yet still complained that she hadn't given enough. The poor old woman was destitute, but she couldn't say "no" to those demanding her help. She once said, "I have given too much; I can't give any more." But the outside world wouldn't let her off the hook; her donations we...

 　　I remember when I was little, every year before the Spring Festival, my family would go to the store to buy newspapers to wallpaper the walls. I was always overjoyed. I would carefully select each sheet, keeping the interesting and favorite parts separately, and saving the rest for wallpapering. Even so, when applying the paste, I would try to leave the favorite parts exposed, which often slowed down the work, and the colors of the more colorful pictures were often darker, inevitably earning me a scolding from my parents! 　　When I had some free time, I would flip through the saved newspapers, a faint fragrance wafting from them. Reading them brought me immense peace and joy. In those days, this was enough for me. I often stood by the wall, browsing the newspapers, or was drawn to the newspapers hanging on the ceiling, gazing up at them for a long time until my neck ached. 　　When I was in junior high, "New Year's cards" were very popular for a while, with all sorts of e...

 　　I love mornings. 　　When I wake up, I walk downstairs alone, the gentle breeze seeming to lift even my skirt. Sometimes I stand by a tree, watching the sky through the quiet shade, watching that pure, moonlit white slowly be tinged with the orange-red of the rising sun. Watching this fills me with a sense of accomplishment, a feeling that time holds the promise of vibrant and beautiful moments. 　　And so, another day begins. 　　I love beginnings, I love setting off. Therefore, I love the morning, I love being someone who travels in the morning light. 　　The morning dew, as if freed from the embrace of the Virgin Mary, playfully hangs on the tips of leaves, yet remains untouched by the world. The mimosa, camphor, magnolia, plum, and osmanthus trees—all the trees are so maternal, cradling their full foliage of dew, silently bathed in the morning air. 　　I remember as a child, being urged by my parents to get up early, carrying my schoolbag to school. On the winding country paths, my ha...