Memory flows on, the trivial bits flashing by, leaving only the ripples of emotion to paint color in a world of black and white.
After their trip around the world, Adam suddenly stopped coming. He vanished—no visits, no word, not even a text. Joan Morrow found herself back in her quiet student life, returning to the simple routine of school and home. No one bothered her, no one wasted her time, and everything seemed perfectly fine.
But she was still taking care of that bouquet.
One day, her spiteful roommate suddenly burst out laughing, face twisted with a crazed grin: "I was wondering why he stopped coming—figures, figures! You clueless blockhead, still lost in your own little world? You silly squirrel, you got dumped, you goof! He doesn’t want you anymore!!"
At that moment, Joan Morrow’s hand suddenly trembled, and even her roommate in the memory world gained a touch of color. This black-and-white character finally had some color, but it wasn’t bright or vivid—it was a faint, crimson red.
That was the day Joan discovered anger.
But Joan didn’t argue back, didn’t even waste a second glaring at her. She just packed up her books and headed out to campus. She went to her usual spot by the little river, and for once, she didn’t start studying right away. She sat there quietly, watching the flowing water, spending a full ten minutes lost in thought.
That was enough time for her to solve a problem that stumped every genius at Cambridge, but this time, after what felt like an eternity of careful thought, she did something she never would’ve done before—she picked up a small stone and started carving words into a little tree. Behind her, Susan Morrow couldn’t hold back tears, because that was their favorite childhood activity as sisters.
Stroke by stroke, Joan carved in Chinese.
[Contradiction]
After a moment of contemplation, Joan carved another word.
[Choice]
Her hand froze on the last stroke of the word '舍' ('let go'). Joan suddenly sighed. Maybe she finally understood, or maybe she didn’t understand anything at all. Whatever she was thinking, a real, living emotion suddenly appeared on her thin silhouette.
That was the day Joan learned what it meant to feel loss.
All good, nothing to complain about.
But no matter what logic said, Joan could never be so detached again, never truly clear and unfeeling. In real life, this showed up as a new emotion in her studies—impatience. Her drive suddenly had a sharp, aggressive edge, and even when she held back, it was enough to put serious pressure on those around her.
Who was around her all the time? Naturally, her pain-in-the-neck roommate and her mentor. And without a doubt, the one under the most pressure was old Kensington.
"Alright, alright! I surrender, don’t look at me like that—I admit I can’t teach you anymore!" Kensington L. Orland kept mopping his brow; lately, this student had been stressing him out big time.
Can’t teach her? More like, he was barely qualified to carry her shoes! These days, he kept catching her giving him that look—like she was caring for someone with special needs. He had to watch every word! If this kept up, his hair would fall out for good, his hairline would be doomed, and he’d lose every last scrap of teacherly dignity!
Kensington’s mind raced for a solution: "But a teacher’s guidance is limited. Science is always about facts, not just fancy talk."
Joan didn’t say a word, just raised her eyebrows. There was a hint of impatience, a touch of "show me what you’ve got," and a barely noticeable air of disdain. Seeing that look, Dream Monroe instantly felt a sense of déjà vu. Those vivid traits seemed etched into her soul—hidden for a while, but always resurfacing in time.
"I’ve got a spot for a lab assistant. Come do some experiments with me," Kensington L. Orland tried to sound casual, like some sage showing off, forcing out a masterly vibe: "If all goes well, we might snag another Nobel Prize."
"If all goes well," "another," "Nobel Prize"—strung together, Kensington figured he’d just pulled off the most epic flex in science history. An absolute peak in the art of showing off.
But Joan wasn’t buying it at all—she didn’t think the Nobel was a big deal. She spun around, her clothes swirling, radiating a subtle, commanding swagger.
Give me two days to pack, then we're off.
Kensington kept rubbing his face, feeling wounded inside, unsure if he’d nailed it or totally bombed. If it was a win, his prized student didn’t care at all. But if it was a flop, getting her interested was a win in itself.
On second thought, he got a bit excited—if he took this girl along for the project, his Nobel was in the bag! When it came time to write the paper, he’d have to assert his teacherly authority and put his name first, hehehe…
Oh right, two days to pack—better get moving!
Snapped out of his daydreams, Kensington suddenly shot off like a dog after a rabbit. If she said two days, it’d be exactly two days—he had tons of stuff to pack, and two days might not be enough! As for the girl, she had almost nothing to pack. If he knew her at all, her only possession was that bottle of flowers.
That evening.
That bouquet—the one she’d cared for so tenderly, the one that survived all winter and bloomed bright in spring—was suddenly yanked up by rough hands. Its owner was howling, screaming like she’d lost her mind.
"You weirdo!!" the roommate shrieked, her face twisted in agony. "I curse you, I’ll curse you forever! I worked four whole years for that project, for that experiment spot—four years! This was my one chance to touch the Nobel, my only shortcut to fame in science, and you—you sneak, you snake, you backstabber—one trip to Kensington L. Orland’s office and you stole it all from me!"
Joan stood helpless at the doorway, unable to understand why her roommate had suddenly gone off the rails—like a phoenix flying overhead, baffled by a crow squawking over a scrap of rotten meat.
"That look again, that damned look! What are you playing at—acting all high and mighty! You think you’re a god? Too good to understand us lowly mortals? Well, let’s see if your heart of stone can really stay untouched!"
Hands raised high, water splashed everywhere. Joan panicked and rushed forward, but for all the books she’d read, none had taught her how to protect her beloved flowers at a time like this.
"Let’s see if you, you heartless freak, can feel the pain of losing something precious!"
Muscles tensed, arms bulged with rage. Amid the furious howls, the vase swung down, smashing into the floor.
Smash—the vase shattered.
Green leaves and red petals scattered everywhere, then got stomped on just to rub it in. The roommate’s face twisted with vicious delight: "Go on, keep acting all calm and above it all!"
Joan froze, staring blankly at the flowers on the floor, like she’d been frozen in place. It was like a giant boulder crashed down, sending wild waves across her once-dead heart. She was lost, her mind racing with countless thoughts, as if something deep inside her had finally shattered. In that instant, she understood something—something too complex for words, but it slipped out as a subconscious whisper: "Losing something hurts more than losing any book or manuscript…"
I think... I get it now.
"Oh, isn’t that what Adam said? Looks like even someone like you can fall for a guy like that." The roommate remembered Adam’s words perfectly, like a fangirl obsessed with her idol. She sneered, lips twitching into a twisted smile: "But you, give it up. He’ll be a king, and you’re just a witch. You’ll always be on the outside looking in—never part of his world!"
Whoosh—Joan didn’t say a word, just turned and walked away.
Soft as she was, she never fought back.
The roommate cackled hysterically, shrieking after Joan: "Cry, suffer, regret—you’ll never reach him, you’ll always be left behind!"
That night.
Knock, knock, knock—slow, steady knocking at the door. Kensington was sweating and busy, planning to ignore it, but the rhythm was so persistent and even, he sensed something unusual. Startled, he hurried to the door. Outside, in the dusky twilight and starlight, stood a thin, fragile figure.
"Sophia? What are you doing here?"
"To borrow a book."
"Borrow a book? At this hour? What book do you need?"
"The library’s closed." Joan’s face was marked by loneliness. "I want to borrow a history book—a book about witch-hunting."