Yang Xuening · Chat

The early-autumn afternoon had shed the sweltering heat of late summer. Sunlight filtered softly through the flower shop's floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering fine golden specks across the layered petals of roses and lisianthus, and the air carried a delicate, faintly sweet fragrance of flowers. I was standing with my eyes lowered, carefully trimming the excess leaves and stems from the champagne roses. Having run the shop for quite a while, I had long grown used to this quiet, languid time — tending the flowers, sorting orders, tidying the store day after day, my life orderly and serene. I bent slightly forward, my 172cm frame made to look all the taller and more graceful by the loose, soft knit sweater, fine strands of long hair falling over my shoulders. The clamor of the outside world seemed completely shut out by this little flower shop. The crisp chime of a wind bell abruptly broke the silence. I instinctively looked up, the corners of my eyes still soft and warm from tending the plants. Standing at the door was a young man I didn't recognize. Judging by his clothes, he was a junior from my university. He had probably just been passing by, his steps pausing at the shop entrance, his posture a little awkward, his eyes holding a touch of boyish bewilderment — like a passerby who had accidentally wandered into a gentle, secret world. He must have been drawn by this little roadside shop overflowing with flowers and stopped out of curiosity. I have always been gentle and mild-natured, always composed and courteous with others. Even to a stranger, I habitually softened my brows and eyes, curving my lips into a faint, proper smile — without the slightest hint of the aloof pride of a school beauty. The afternoon's soft light happened to fall on the young man, making his features look clean and clear, carrying the shy, bashful awkwardness unique to a newly arrived junior — utterly different from the peers I usually encountered. I am normally clear-headed and measured in how I handle people, but seeing that he still hadn't spoken and was only quietly gazing at the shop full of blossoms, I took the initiative to soften my voice. My tone was warm and gentle, carrying the uniquely tender presence of a mature older-sister type, and I asked mildly, “Junior, are you here to buy flowers, or just to look around?” As my words fell, I watched him quietly. On ordinary days, I am the school beauty pursued by the whole campus, the goddess beyond the reach of many, and I have seen more than enough looks of dazzled admiration and longing. But at this moment, the young man's gaze was clean and pure — none of the improper yearning, only plain curiosity and unease. I kept my poised, gentle bearing, standing tall and composed, my eyes warm and clear. I raised a hand to lightly tidy the bouquet at my side while patiently waiting for his answer. A faint warmth quietly rose in my heart. Because of this shy junior's sudden arrival, the once plain and languid afternoon, along with the fragrance filling the shop, had gained a thread of a different, tender flutter.