After Ten Years: A Journey of Regrets

I turned down a marriage proposal from my blind date and boarded a train to confess my feelings to the son of the man who once kidnapped me.

Ten years ago, I sent Justin Pascall's father to the police station, and since then, I have received a bouquet of white lilies every birthday.

He used to tell me, "Time was slower in the past. Carriage, horses, and mail needed a little bit of time. It took time to fall in love in the past."

Now, he said, "Lexie Cantrell, don't come back again."

1

When I opened the door, the lights inside the house were blindingly bright.

My parents looked at me with stern faces.

I placed the lilies on the shoe cabinet, fully aware that this was the calm before the storm. I could sense the tension building.

Today, Wesley Holland proposed to me, and I refused.

Wesley was introduced to me by my parents through a matchmaker, and they were quite fond of Wesley.

"Why did you reject Wesley's proposal?" my mom asked, her tone reminiscent of a teacher interrogating a student who had made a mistake, leaving no room for explanation.

"I don't like him," I answered truthfully.

"What do you know about love? You're not mature enough! Besides, how could the person I chose for you be wrong? We wouldn't harm you," my mom softened her tone, her earnest attempt to educate me felt insincere.

I was twenty-seven years old, I was mature enough.

They didn't even wish me a happy birthday upon entering, only bombarded me with questions and lectures under the guise of caring for me.

It was disgusting.

Ignoring my parents' lengthy discourse on the worthlessness of love, I took out the vase I had prepared earlier, filled it with water, added four drops of nutrient solution, and gently shook the vase before placing the lilies inside.

Their lecture was nearing its end. "Tomorrow, you should apologize to Wesley, and our two families will have a meal together to finalize your marriage arrangements."

I scoffed, replying, "You can't force someone to do something they don't want, haven't you learned that by now?"

When I was a child, I didn't like pink sweatshirts and wanted to wear black ones. My mom first scolded me for lacking vitality, then criticized black sweatshirts for making people look gloomy, and finally insisted on buying the pink one.

Since she was the one paying, I had no choice.

My mom's face turned livid, and my dad shouted at me, "Is that how you talk to your mom? Is this how you treat your parents?"

Finally, my mom's scrutinizing gaze landed on the lilies. "Where did these flowers come from?"

I ignored her, and she exploded. "Are you still thinking about that brat, that gutter rat? I'm warning you, stay away from that little bastard."

Listen, she was a teacher, but she kept calling others a little bastard.

"He's not a brat or a gutter rat. He has a name, Justin."

My mom was so angry she was seeing stars, and my dad's veins bulged as he raised his hand to slap me.

But the slap never landed.

They spat at me in anger and stormed out of my home.

Staring at the lilies, I felt a deep sense of loneliness.

After transferring to another school in my senior year of high school, this was the tenth consecutive year that I had received anonymous lilies on my birthday.

But I knew they were from Justin.

He loved lilies.

So that incident happened ten years ago?

2

Ten years ago, there was a shocking case of a high school girl being kidnapped and raped.

The victim was me.

The perpetrator was Justin's father, Braden Clarke.

Justin and I were in our senior year at that time.

Faced with a disgraceful incident, my parents' first reaction wasn't to seek justice for me but to silence me.

I refused, went to the police, and insisted on bringing the perpetrator to justice.

Due to the authority of the police, my parents came forward to arrange for me to take a leave of absence from school due to illness, and they also appeared in court on my behalf until Braden was brought to justice.

After the trial, my parents took me to another city to take the national college entrance exam the following year.

Justin dropped out of school.

His mother suffered from mental illness, and Braden went to prison, leaving him alone to take care of his mother.

Over the years, I never inquired about Justin, only occasionally sending him postcards from my travels.

There were no words on them, but I believed he knew they were from me.

The lilies on the dining table began to wilt on the third day after being placed in the vase.

As if it were fate, no matter how carefully I took care of them, the picked flowers would eventually wither.

I called Wesley, "I've packed up everything you ever gave me, and I'll return it to you tomorrow."

Wesley said there was no need to return them.

I explained, "I haven't used any of it."

After a while, I heard a bitter laugh on the other end of the line. "I'll pick you up after work tomorrow."

If there was nothing else, I would leave as soon as I got off work, but Wesley was working overtime.

I took a taxi to his company and unexpectedly ran into my elementary school classmate, Kellan Bradley.

His father and Braden were from the same place, childhood friends, and he was the one who treated Justin the best in elementary school.

After some small talk, I asked him about Justin.

My parents had kept the incident well-hidden, so almost no one knew I was the victim.

Kellan grinned, "Justin is now a well-known model, and several entertainment companies want to hire him, but he hasn't accepted any offers. Oh, and he recently opened a flower shop behind his high school, on that street. I can't remember the name, but it's easy to find. It's the only flower shop on that street."

Wesley came over in a hurry, and Kellan added me on WhatsApp and said that he would treat me well next time we go back to our hometown.

During dinner, I was lost in thought. Wesley talked a lot, but I didn't hear a word, my mind filled with thoughts of Justin opening a flower shop.

3

I took leave and returned home.

I barely caught the next train, realizing I hadn't packed any clothes or booked a hotel.

I laughed at my impulsiveness.

Outside the train window, the bustling lights shone brightly in the dark night, each one dazzling and captivating, just like my memories of Justin.

The first time I saw Justin was when I was five years old. My mom took me to Lakeview Peak for sketching, and not far away was a boy as beautiful as a ruby flying a kite.

I noticed him immediately.

The bright red kite shaped like a monster obediently soared in the sky, flying wherever the boy wanted it to go.

He flew it so well, I couldn't help but admire him.

My mother gently tapped my head with her knuckle, telling me to focus.

I lowered my head to look at the nearby pink flowers, but my peripheral vision was filled with the boy's free-running figure.

When I was six and a half years old and in primary school, I found that he and I were in the same class.

He was so aloof.

Relying on his good looks, he acted like a little prince and disdained the friendliness and closeness of his teachers and classmates.

I hated the teachers, hated the classmates, and hated him.

The classmates smiled at me with a sense of awkwardness, and the teachers' kindness was purely due to my exceptional grades.

We became the two weirdos in the class, we were high and mighty, keeping to ourselves.

We were in the same class during middle school as well.

He remained the popular yet distant golden boy, while I continued to be the proud, bookish overachiever who didn't make friends.

Throughout middle school, we had no interaction.

On the day of high school registration, I saw his name on the class roster.

Thinking back to the last semester, when he immersed himself in relentless studying, I wasn't surprised at all.

In fact, I felt a surge of excitement.

How wonderful! I would be classmates with him again.

Justin's popularity soared even higher in high school, reaching new heights.

Every day someone would pretend to pass by our classroom just to take a look at him.

The girls in the class also particularly liked to discuss him.

After warm-ups during PE class, girls would gather in the classroom to chat about Justin.

They speculated about the girls who seemed close to Justin and commented on their appearances, saying they were all stunning beauties.

But Justin remained indifferent to these gorgeous girls.

They also discussed Justin's family background, claiming his family had donated a sports field to get him into our class.

Whenever they talked about him, I would pause my studies, empty my mind, and listen to everything they said about Justin.

Although Justin and I sat next to each other, we rarely spoke and hardly ever had a real conversation.

At school, my sole focus was studying, and for over a decade, I hadn't made a single friend.

Eventually, Justin became my only friend.

4

At 6:30 in the morning, I woke up in a daze. I got off the train but didn't have the courage to look for him.

Standing in the cold wind, I cursed myself for five minutes before hailing a cab to the mall. There, I bought a new outfit and touched up my lipstick.

Slow Time.

So this was Justin's flower shop.

Standing outside, my legs trembled, and I felt an overwhelming urge to turn back.

A girl on duty opened the door and asked if I wanted to buy flowers.

I didn't answer but instead asked, "Is Justin here?"

The girl eyed me warily. "What business do you have with our boss?"

Relieved, I smiled and said, "I just want to look around and buy a bouquet."

The shop's décor was simple, and most of the flowers were inexpensive, the kind we could buy in bulk. They seemed perfect for high schoolers to purchase a couple of bouquets when they were in a good mood.

When we were in high school, Justin would fold a lily for me every day using my colored paper. He was deft and skilled at it.

I cherished the way the morning light fell on him as he focused on folding lilies for me.

At that moment, I selfishly thought that he was mine.

Deep in the shop, I noticed lilies planted in pots, which surprised me.

"How much are the lilies?"

I bent down to sniff them but didn't hear a response.

Turning around, I found myself staring into a pair of dazzling, glass-like eyes that sparkled with flecks of light.

My throat suddenly felt dry.

The person in front of me stared at me for a minute before asking, in a calm tone, "Which one do you want?"

Feeling awkward, I glanced around the shop, avoiding his gaze. The girl from earlier was nowhere to be seen.

Justin saw through my confusion and explained, "She went to buy drinks."

I said, "Okay."

Then, he asked again, "Which one do you want?"

I pretended to pick flowers and secretly glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but he looked calm.

To me, all the lilies looked the same. I randomly pointed to one and turned to him. "I'll take this one."

Justin carefully picked up scissors and trimmed all the blooming lilies.

With his long fingers, he looped colorful string around them several times, quickly wrapping them into a large bouquet.

The fragrance wafted up, making my cheeks flush red in an instant.

Justin reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

His movements were intimate and natural, as if he had done it countless times.

Suddenly, I remembered the time in sophomore year when I had a fever. He skipped the morning exercises to fan me in the classroom, only to be caught by me. He stubbornly refused to admit it, mumbling that he was fanning himself.

But his ears had turned bright red.

At that time, Justin and I had already been desk mates for a year, but we weren't close.

After evening self-study, he lingered in the classroom, waiting for me to leave first. As soon as I stepped out, he followed me.

Outside the school building, he grabbed my arm and asked, "Why did you never come to play with me in elementary or middle school?"

Instinctively, I retorted, "Do you lack friends?"

That night, I thought about my response and realized the meaning behind his words.

When I was five, he sneaked over while my mom wasn't around and asked me what I was drawing. I was shy and pretentious, so I ignored him.

I didn't expect that one act of ignoring him would stretch into nine years.

The next day, I brought an extra carton of milk to share with him. It was my way of apologizing for what I'd said the night before.

He understood. He happily twisted the cap off and drank it all in one go right in front of me.

Back then, he was childish and silly. So different from the person he was at this moment.

Pulled out of my thoughts by the scent of flowers, I looked up and asked him, "Want to fly kites tomorrow?"

The girl returned with drinks, and when she saw the lilies in my hands, her expression was one of utter shock.

Justin took a cup of drink and handed it to me. "Where do you live?"

I felt nervous, afraid he'd see through my unease.

"I haven't booked a hotel yet."

5

After closing the flower shop, Justin took me back to his place.

I wore one of his oversized T-shirts and slept on his bed, while Justin made a simple bed on the floor.

Lying on my side, I could smell the faint scent of Justin body wash and hear his steady breathing.

...

It was the summer before senior year when I first noticed the scars on Justin's body.

I accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee, staining his school uniform.

Justin was meticulous about cleanliness, so I gave him a new oversized uniform I'd recently bought and told him to change into it.

As he took off his jacket, raising his arm, I caught a glimpse of the dense scars on his back through the wide sleeve opening.

Instinctively, I blurted out a question, but Justin remained calm and said it was nothing.

The next day, I brought him a bag of medicine for treating external wounds. "If it's serious, go to the hospital."

Justin stared at the bag of medicine in silence for a long time.

As the class bell rang, I saw his lips move slightly, as if he were saying, "Thank you."

Later, Justin didn't come to school for a week. Rumor had it that he had injured his leg playing basketball and was recovering at home.

I didn't believe it.

He had never played basketball with the boys at school.

The next day, Justin returned to school.

He acted as if nothing had happened, but I could sense something was wrong.

The sunlight fell on him, but he seemed devoid of life, like a porcelain doll shattered and painstakingly pieced back together.

After evening self-study, I pulled him aside to an empty corner and saw the shocking scars on his back.

No matter how much I tried to persuade him, Justin refused to report it to the police.

In the end, I cried and told him, "You should escape, just run away."

Justin gave a bitter smile and patted my head. "The people I care about are all here. Where else could I possibly go?"

On his birthday, my parents weren't home, and he came to my house in the middle of the night.

I slept on the bed, and he slept on the floor. That night, he spoke to me more than ever before.