While organizing my cabinet today, I came across the weekly journals from last semester, which recorded my interactions with my homeroom teacher. I couldn't help but read from the first page to the last, bringing past memories back to life.
That semester, we talked about everything. You once said I was a girl so quiet that she could barely be still; you compared me to a time bomb that could explode at any moment, which is why you felt compelled to pay extra attention to me; you admitted that my heart was truly unpredictable and wondered who could ever truly walk into it; you encouraged me to persevere since I had chosen this school; you reminded me that Crying too much diminishes the value of tears, so I should not let them fall easily; you expressed that it was a great fortune for you to know me and our class; and you even joked that I shouldn't miss you too much during the holidays.
That semester, you cared for me so deeply, tried to understand me so thoroughly, encouraged me so earnestly, and cherished our bond so much. I hope you never change and that you will still be my teacher next semester. The reason is simple, just as you often said: spend enough time together, and affection naturally grows.