When I opened my eyes in a pool of blood for the 377th time, the ragdoll cat used its scaly claws to curl up my hairband - a blue and white striped one, a gift from Xia Qingyuan, with the corners worn as much as the one stained with blood when she defended me from the mute beast.
"It's so stupid." Mao scolded, but Shen Yan's tone leaked out, "The cherry blossom candy in Su Ye's work bag has been pinched 376 times; Qingyuan perfume is mixed with blood clotting grass, and it always sprays on your music score when you cough up blood."
The mechanical bird screams "She's afraid of the dark", the snow leopard's paw prints engrave "Don't look back", and even the final black mist breathes lightly. When the synthesizer played a complete fugue, I understood the truth in the bestiality:
Those who scold me, lie to me, and die for me are all unspoken "love you".
This time, it's me who brings them all back.
