Dear Diary: I once read a fairy tale by Andersen to Tiffany and Jake. Long, long ago, there was an emperor.Legend has it that there is a nightingale in his domain, more beautiful than all, but he never knew it.A group of servants went through untold hardships to capture Nightingale, and the yearning became reality, and Nightingale's singing became popular all over the country.However, a mechanical imitation tribute from a neighboring country quickly replaced Nightingale because of its fluent melody, which was easy to imitate and its body was inlaid with jewels and jade.Nightingale walked away from everyone's worship and onlookers on the imitation.

When I read this, the two children looked disappointed and kept asking, "Is that all? Is it gone? What happened later? What happened later?" and after?Then everyone forgot about Nightingale.Then the imitation malfunctioned, was repaired, and malfunctioned again.Later, the emperor was critically ill, and everyone was talking about the date of his death and the future new emperor, leaving him alone on the sickbed, watching the god of death approaching step by step under the moonlight.At this time, he heard the singing of the nightingale outside the window, as beautiful as before, the flowing melody cannot be captured and imitated by imitation craftsmanship.The god of death begged the nightingale to continue singing, for which he offered his crown and sickle, unable to capture the life of the emperor.

I know what to expect with two kids.They expect the king to realize the value of the nightingale again, expect the nightingale to return like the king of the night, and expect the short-lived and shallow subjects to bow their heads before the nightingale, ashamed that they have made the pearl dusty. However, the later part of the story doesn't always get them what they want. Nightingale extinguished the emperor's idea of ​​smashing the counterfeit.It said that when it wanted to see the emperor, it would perch on a branch at dusk, singing those who were happy and happy, and those who were suffering.It sings of good and of evil.It will stay by the poor fisherman and fly to everyone far from the emperor and the palace.

It says, I love your heart more than a crown. "But I want to ask you to promise me one thing: Please don't tell anyone that you have a bird that tells you everything. Only then will everything be fine." So the nightingale flew away. And the emperor stood up and said to those attendants who came in to see the dead old emperor, "Good morning." I know that this story is far less pleasant to Tiffany and the others than the story of happy grievances and enmity.Maybe a long time later, when they grow up, have been kings, and have also been nightingales, they will understand that the reunion in the eyes of bystanders may not be what people in the play are willing to bear.

Sometimes, the most beautiful story is the gentle whisper on the treetops in the dusk that no one knows. That was the last story I ever told them.At that time, the driver had been dismissed by their family. After work, I took the subway back to school alone.In the dark tunnel, the white iron world swayed with the track, I looked at the few passengers in the deserted carriage, trying to figure out the stories behind their faces. Maybe there is a longing for a person hidden under the stiff expression, maybe while reading the newspaper, he complained about working overtime for no money, maybe he narrowly escaped death, and finally waved goodbye to the past and lived a life of ordinary people.

We are all the same people.Being mediocre, it doesn't seem worthy of having an outstanding story; being lumped together by life, you can't even have a little difference. However, we all know our unique secret.In summary, there are a few similar words; when spread out, there are thousands of different lines and textures.It's like a birthmark, condensed under the clothes, usually you don't think of it deliberately, but you always see it suddenly when you undress, take a bath, lower your head, and see it in the private moments when you are alone. Secrets make everyone different.Therefore, the song of the nightingale does not need to be sung to the palace.

If one day, it's my turn to tell secrets into stories.The story I want to tell is called, I once liked someone.This sentence may surprise many people.But what they really want to hear is, later, whether you were together. If I say that we were together later, then we quarreled, then we separated, then we were together again, and then we had affairs separately, and then we were suspicious of each other because of buying a house, and then we got the license, and then the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law fought. If I said that I confessed my love later, the other party ignored it, and then we turned against each other, and then we settled down and each was happy.

Of course, I made this up.There is not so much reality in my story that there is no escape.People who tell a good story always know where to end, cut out the redundant, and keep the best.Until he was complacent and retreated into a cocoon. This way my secret is beautiful.It's called secret love, youth, regret, accepting when you see it, and a youth who is not old. But I am not that kind of person.Many people have loved people who they can't have.Or maybe you love because you can't get it.And what I want is not a beautiful regret.I didn't know I was such a brave person. and after?Later, every evening, the nightingale landed on the treetops outside the window.