Camellia Expired

When I was eighteen years old, Shancha captured a beam of moonlight in a short video. The silhouette of the person adjusting the camera is called Han Ting, a 22-year-old photography blogger, with a broken jade begonia hanging from his collarbone. He called her a kid with a smile and taught her to use Li Qingzhao's words to annotate the promises of each year, but he did not say that "the camellia withered at the end of March" was the destined prophecy of this story. The voice strips collected 730 times in four years finally became the cold truth in the brain-computer interface of the laboratory. The halo in his lens that made her heart tremble was nano-projection, the New Year's Eve phrase "Watching the fireworks with you" was a dopamine induction experiment, and even the falling cherry blossoms when they first met were embedded with neural tracking chips. When the Begonia pendant cracked open on the autopsy table and revealed the specimen number "HT-003", Shancha realized that those so-called first moments of love were nothing more than an emotional domestication program written by a twenty-two-year-old man. When he said he wanted to accompany me into adulthood, he was actually waiting for my brain to complete the neural coding. White Camellia died in late March, and his Begonia never had to know.