Her Rose

Cheng Ying first saw Jiang Hanguang at a bustling banquet.

The dignified woman stood gracefully beside her lover, like a rose sealed in a glass jar—forever vibrant, yet forever lifeless.

A pity, but it had nothing to do with her.

The second time they met, the woman was on her film set, having cold water splashed in her face by the lead actor, yet she stood neither servile nor overbearing, like a straight, green pine in the wind and snow.

Cheng Ying had intended to watch a good show, but after meeting Jiang Hanguang’s eyes, she couldn’t help but step in front of her.

A scarred soul trapped in this incomparably beautiful shell.

It made one want to take her for their own, to protect her.

I once saw a unique rose in another’s garden. It was the most beautiful flower I had ever seen. A pity it already had an owner, and an even greater pity that the owner was a stupid ox.

Later, I saw that rose discarded by the roadside, its branches and leaves in disarray, its life fading, about to be trampled into the sunless mud by some insignificant person.

So I snatched her up, planted her in my greenhouse, gave her the best temperature, light, and soil, and watched her slowly bloom into a beautiful flower.

And I waited for this rose to shed its cold shell for me, to kiss my fingertips with its delicate, soft petals.

This is my rose.

But it was just a rose, nothing more.

It wasn’t until she grew into my heart that I understood.

She is the beating heart within my cold armor, my one and only lover.

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