Ji Yingying still remembers the first time she met Huo Zheng.
She had just woken up from her nap and walked down the stairs barefoot. The boy in the white shirt among the rose bushes looked towards her with the book in his hand.
The warm wind in the midsummer afternoon lifted the hem of her skirt, and it was as beautiful as an unawakened dream.
Six years later, she was kneeling in the courtyard, and Huo Zheng looked at her with an indifferent gaze, as if looking at an unrelated stranger.
He was the one who told her to die, and he was the one who hugged her when she fell.
From then on, the two did not owe each other anything.
[I hate you, and even more I hate the me who still humblely loves you.
