The afternoon sunlight reminds me of that girl who loved using milk-scented body wash—the girl who sat in the second row by the window many years ago, where the sunlight would just happen to spill onto her bangs.

I feel that love in high school was always so sincere that I still yearn for it even now, the kind that even when buried under test papers...

It had nothing to do with material things, nothing to do with the future. Even if you call me silly or childish, I will still say it out loud: I liked her because she was beautiful.

That summer was so clean, and a faint scent of milk drifted in the air, making the sunlight that entered the classroom all afternoon feel lazy. Then I would squint my eyes and lean on my desk, tilting my head to stare at her, lost in thought. She would occasionally glance at me and tell me to stop looking, but most of the time, she would just blush. Accompanied by the chirping of cicadas and the drowsiness of math class. It was the taste of summer.

The milk scent of that summer made me nostalgic for many summers that followed. It’s a pity I never got to smell the lavender or onion-and-garlic scented body wash she might have used in winter. She transferred schools in a hurry during the autumn, so in my memory, she only ever belonged to summer.

I remember it was pouring with rain the day I heard the news. I sat in the classroom thinking, should I run wildly on the playground? Should I scream and shout recklessly? After all, I liked her so much—really, truly liked her.

So I went downstairs, looked at the torrential rain, and rolled up my pant legs. Just then, the class bell rang, and my homeroom teacher passed by and asked, "What are you doing here? Class has started." Right, what was I doing here? I rolled my pant legs back down and walked into the classroom. During class, I looked at the heavy rain outside the window, thinking it was lucky I didn't go down; otherwise, getting soaked would have been miserable.

Was I sad? Yes, I was sad. But... it didn't seem that sad. It seemed, well, that was it.

It was just this indescribable feeling, stuck in my chest. Although it felt heavy, it didn't seem like a big deal. It seemed, well, that was it.

Meeting her again was a long time later. Fortunately, it was still summer, and fortunately, she was wearing the white dress I loved to see her in. It allowed me to recognize her from across the street. I threw away the flyers for modern obstetrics and Eurasian andrology in my hand and walked toward her like a madman. Then, as I got close, I stopped to catch my breath, straighten my clothes and my messy emotions, and even checked my non-existent shoelaces.

In the end, she was the one who turned around first. Without a second thought, she said in a tone of surprise:

"Hi, xxx, long time no see."

"Yeah, long time no see." I suddenly felt awkward, fiddling with my zipper that had suddenly become soaked with sweat. She smiled and said, "You're still as silly as before." After I subconsciously finished my sentence, I realized something was wrong. She stared at me with a half-smile, and I felt the taste of embarrassment.

Then, after she reminded me to exchange phone numbers, I ran away. I couldn't bear the suffocating, cloying scent of summer in the air, nor could I bear my heart, which felt like it was about to jump out of my throat.

On the way, I thought that the idol-drama scenario I had pretended to be relaxed about might have made me look like a total idiot in her eyes. But I didn't feel embarrassed or ashamed; I was just sad, especially sad. Life is not an idol drama after all, and it's no wonder I thought I was an idiot, but I felt like I should have done it anyway.

I think this is because I liked her—truly, genuinely liked her. So why didn't I just hug her and say, "I've missed you so much all these years"? Thinking about it this way, it seems I didn't like her that much after all.

But I actually knew that that summer had just ended. The feelings from back then surfaced in my heart again, and I suddenly wanted to have a good cry to fulfill the wish of my younger self, but I couldn't cry.

So when I got home, I searched for many tear-jerker movies and finally shed tears of satisfaction after watching 5 Centimeters per Second. Alone in my room, I couldn't do what my younger self had imagined—screaming and crying loudly in the pouring rain. I could only turn the volume down to the lowest level, sobbing intermittently. If my mom had suddenly walked in, she might have thought her son was moaning while masturbating. I suddenly thought of that.

So I stopped crying. It seemed it hadn't reached the point where it could make me cry that sadly, so why was I crying? Perhaps it was because the movie was just too good.

However, summer is about to pass. What awaits are autumn, winter, and the next summer. It’s just that, looking at the clumps of clouds and the unbearable, cloying sunlight, I always think of that milk-scented summer from the past.

It’s as if the sunlight is just spilling through the glass and onto the desk, right across the bangs.