In the thirteenth year of secret love, she is getting married.
I stood in front of the flower shop and thought for a long time, and finally picked a bouquet of white lilies.
The clerk asked: "Want to give it to your lover?"
I said, "No, give it to a newlywed friend."
The flower language of lily is that it will last forever, and it also means - please forget me.
This is the first bouquet of flowers I gave her and the last farewell.
The startling glance at the age of sixteen, the crumpled confession note at the age of eighteen, the long letter locked in the drawer at the age of twenty-two, and the "Happy Newlywed" finally spoken out at the age of twenty-nine.
All love cannot be expressed verbally, so I hide it in every "drop-in", in the messages that are answered in seconds late at night, and in the words "let me take care of you" that are never sent.
On her wedding day, I put on my pressed suit and stood in the third row of the guest seats.
She didn't see me as she walked by.
It doesn't matter.
If only she could see the bouquet of lilies.
Intention: The first bouquet of lilies I send you is the last love letter in my youth