While organizing my cabinet the other day, I came across my weekly diaries with my homeroom teacher from last semester. I couldn't resist reading from the first page to the last, as memories flooded back.
That semester, we talked about everything. You once described me as a girl who was 'quietly quiet,' yet like a time bomb ready to explode at any moment, which is why you felt compelled to pay extra attention to me. You remarked that my heart was hard to fathom and that no one could truly walk into it. You also encouraged me to persist in my choice of school. You reminded me that shedding too many tears diminishes their value and advised me not to let tears fall easily. You expressed that it was a great fortune to have met me and our class, even jokingly telling me not to miss you too much during the holidays.
That semester, you cared for me, sought to understand me, and encouraged me so deeply; at that time, you cherished our bond so much. I hope you never change and that you will continue to be my class teacher next semester. The reason is simple, as you often said: Given enough time, feelings naturally develop.