I miss you so much！

拾琢斯

Suddenly, I miss you so much！ In Kunming city, the roses have bloomed again. Reds, yellows, whites—they line up in a corner of the botanical garden, catching the eyes of visitors. I stroll alone into the garden, and as I look at those flowers, I think of her. Once, while traveling in Beijing, I met her at the National Botanical Garden. She was from Kunming. We both loved traveling and roses, and as we wandered through the garden for a long time, we became familiar with each other. Back then, we often stood side by side in front of the flowers. She wore a plain-colored long dress, standing out vividly among the blossoms. She loved red roses, and whenever she saw one, she would take out her phone and bend down to take pictures. The dewdrops on the petals, the insects flitting among the stamens—all found their way into her lens. I would stand beside her, watching her photograph the flowers and seeing the flowers reflect on her face. She took photos with great care, spending over ten minutes on a single bloom, trying every possible angle. Strangely, I never grew impatient—I just stood there, watching her fingers tap and swipe across the screen. "Look at this one," she suddenly said, pointing at a red rose. "The edges of the petals are a little withered, but that makes it seem more real." I leaned in to look, and indeed it was so. The petals were a vibrant red, but their edges curled slightly, tinged with yellow. Flowers are never flawless, just as people are never perfect—perhaps that’s just how it is. Later, when the trip ended, she went to Chengdu. Before she left, we visited the botanical garden one more time. That day, there were few visitors, and the roses were in full bloom. She took many photos, saying she would take them to Chengdu. I saw her off at the station—she waved, stepped into the train car, and disappeared from sight. At first, we often chatted on WeChat. She sent me photos of Chengdu’s roses, saying they weren’t as vibrant as Kunming’s. I updated her on Kunming’s blossoms, and she would always reply, "So nice." Gradually, our conversations dwindled, leaving only simple greetings. "How have you been lately?" "Not bad, and you?" "Same here." That was all. But whenever the roses bloomed, we would talk a little more. She asked how Kunming’s roses were doing, and I would describe them in detail. In response, she would send a smiling emoji. I also asked about Chengdu’s roses, but she would only say, "Just okay," with no further elaboration. Roses became the only thread between us—thin as silk, yet never broken. Today, I stand again in the rose garden, watching the flowers bloom in lively splendor. Visitors weave through the paths, laughter and chatter filling the air. I take out my phone, snap a few photos, hesitate for a moment, but end up sending them to her. "The roses in Kunming have bloomed," I write. A moment later, my phone vibrates. "So nice," she replies. Staring at those two words, I suddenly remember the way she bent down to photograph the flowers. Blossoms come and go, year after year, while people drift apart. Only the roses bloom season after season, their light and shadows flowing through the years! Suddenly, I miss you so much! Without hesitation, I sent this message to her on WeChat.?

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I miss you so much！

拾琢斯