On the night when he made a wish to disappear, the camellia flowers were falling to the ground.
Chen Zangjin knew that she was the white camellia - the flowering period was branded on her spine by fate: seventeen years old, terminally ill, for two years. He had practiced ten thousand falling postures, preparing to fall into the dirt to complete a quiet funeral. He turned all his unwillingness into hatred, quenched the poison, and only directed it at one person: his half-brother, Chen Zangyu. That healthy, bright boy who was favored by the whole world was like the untimely sunshine, illuminating his accelerated withering.
Chen Zangyu opened his hand.
When everyone was waiting to see how the flower would break, he walked through the early spring wind and steadily caught his falling brother. "Brother," the cold palm trembled against the palm, "Look, the camellia blooms so well this year."
"If I'm destined to end up like this," Chen Zangjin bit her breath in pain, "Why do you have to reach out?"
"Because there is a mistake in the book." Chen Zangyu put his palm against the back of his neck, "Falling is not the end - it is my palm that first became your earth."
They steal time. Between the hospital bed and the morning light, between the painkillers and the kiss. He taught him: withering is not about losing, but about being in someone's palm and completing the entire journey from blooming to withering.
Until the morning when the last petal begins to curl. Chen Zangjin looked at the gentle and faded camellia in his brother's palm and suddenly laughed:
"Look, we won."
"Win for what?"
"From the first time you caught me until I completely withered in your arms -" he kissed his moist eyelashes, "in between, we stole a whole spring."
Love is knowing that you will wither in my hands, but I am still willing to pave the slowest way home for you with my hands.
"The book says that when the whole camellia flower withers, it is a romantic death."
"Then my romance is-" Chen Zangyu held the withered flower close to his heart:
"Catching every fall of yours until my pulse learns the frequency of your blooming."
Intention: When the withering countdown enters, love is the only way for them to escape from nature. He taught him: Falling is not the end, but the beginning of being caught; withering is not losing, but being in the palm of someone's hand to complete the journey.