It took me seven years to write a love letter to Luo Jinzhun, and another ten years to learn to forget him. So when he finally proposed to me with a ring in his hand, I nodded and said "yes" - on the third day after I got my cancer diagnosis.
This marriage was my carefully planned grand farewell. He put a diamond ring on my face and vowed to spend the rest of his life making up for the ten years he had missed, but he didn't know that the medical record I hid said "terminal". He learned to make soup clumsily, cried in panic late at night because I was in pain and couldn't sleep, and choked out "I'm sorry, I'm late" when the sycamore leaves fell again.
But fate never accepts belated apology. He finally read the fragments of the seventh love letter at my funeral. On the back were my last thoughts when I was seventeen: "Luo Jinzhun, this is the last time. If you don't look back, I will really leave."
But this time, I left completely and never gave him a chance to look back.
