Under the spotlight in the auditorium, Xu Yan's buttoned shirt collar revealed a light brown scar. As a provincial key myth, no one knows the secret he locked in the sandalwood box: 48 pieces of lemon candy paper, with "Little Lemon laughed three times today" written on the back of each piece.
When Ning Meng broke the seventh glass jar on a Qiu Yu night, she discovered the truth in the interlayer - the boy who claimed to have never replied had sent her 217 unsigned letters in five years. The letter paper is soaked in cedar fragrance, and the handwriting ranges from tender to sharp, finally stopping at her 16th birthday: "Today I saw you accepting the mints from your senior, and I suddenly wished I could become the sour one you hate."
Every evening after the reunion, Xu Yan hid a lemon candy in the pocket of his white coat. He accurately calculated the angle at which he would rub shoulders with her, until Ning Meng broke through the wall of the "Law of Conservation of Acidity" formula in his laboratory. Those complex chemical formulas ultimately point to the same variable: when lemon candy dissolves in the mouth at 37.2°C, the functional relationship between heartbeat frequency and sight crossing.
"Why pretend you don't know me?" The question in the rainstorm ripped open the gorgeous mask. The two hearts are quietly approaching.
While Ning Meng was sorting out her mother's belongings, she uncovered the Xu family's dusty marriage agreement. On the yellowed page, 18-year-old Xu Yan used his bloody fingerprints to write the effective date: "On the day I die."
[The secret of lemon rust is boiling in the centrifuge. They are the perfect reaction residues of each other. When the seventh lemon star crossed the clock tower of his alma mater, the boy who was always seven minutes ahead finally said: "This time I will chase your shadow."
