She was the white moonlight he couldn't ask for, as cold as snow, far away in the horizon.
She was the red rose in his arms, as warm as fire, right before his eyes.
He married a white rose, but he missed the beauty of red roses; he accepted a red rose, and looked at the distance of the white moonlight.
It wasn't until the red rose withered and the white moonlight faded away that he discovered——
The rice stick on the clothes was once the bright moonlight in front of the bed.
The mosquito blood on the wall was once a cinnabar mole on the heart.
And she is just the most sober outsider in this farce.
