The White Tulip's Lie

The morning sunlight streamed through the glass door, casting long shafts of light across the floor. I was arranging the freshly arrived champagne roses, my fingertips still damp with dew. "Could you please give me a bouquet of white tulips?" That voice was like a slender needle, suddenly piercing my eardrum. My hand holding the flower shears hesitated, and slowly I raised my head. The man stood backlit; his figure unchanged, but his suit gave him an air of newfound steadiness compared to three years ago. It was Daniel Shaw. I lowered my eyes, pretending not to recognize him, and turned away to fetch the flowers. "Just a moment." "Whitney Jones?" He stepped forward, his voice carrying a tentative uncertainty, "Is it really you?" I didn't stop arranging the flowers, my tone flat: "Do you know me, sir?" Daniel Shaw's breath hitched noticeably. He came to the counter, his gaze locked tightly on my face: "You don't remember me? I'm Daniel Shaw." "Sorry," I pushed the wrapped tulips toward him, "My memory isn't very good. Many people and things from the past have grown blurred." He didn't take the flowers. Instead, he withdrew a photograph from his wallet. The edges of the photo had already yellowed. The girl in the picture had her hair tied in a high ponytail, smiling brightly as she leaned on the boy's shoulder. That was me at twenty-two and Daniel Shaw. "Look at this," his voice trembled slightly. "We used to come to this flower shop all the time. You said white tulips were like our love—pure and lasting." My fingertips curled slightly; the cold flower shears pressed painfully into my palm. "Sir, the flowers total eighty." I avoided his gaze and pointed to the payment code. "You really don't remember?" Pain filled Daniel Shaw's eyes. "We ate skewers at the snack street outside the university gate; the spicy food made your eyes water; the first time your experiment failed, you cried for a whole hour in my arms; The day of my graduation defense, you waited downstairs holding flowers for me for three hours..." These moments flicker through my mind like film clips, vivid as if they happened just yesterday. "Sir," I interrupted him, my tone cooling slightly, "I am already married." Whether I remember those past things or not no longer matters. "Married?" Daniel Shaw suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with reluctance. "Who did you marry? When was this? You clearly..." "Three years ago." I cut him off again, picking up the nearby spray bottle to water the flowers. "My husband works abroad; we have a good relationship." "Impossible!" he raised his voice, and the other customers in the shop all turned to look. "If you had truly let go, why are you still running this flower shop? It used to be our favorite place to come to!" I put down the watering can and looked him straight in the eyes. "This shop was a wedding gift from my husband. I just think the environment here is nice." "Whitney Jones, look at me." Daniel Shaw grabbed my wrist. His palm was warm, just like it used to be. "Tell me, do you really not have me in your heart anymore?" "Let go." I wrenched my hand free and stepped back to put some distance between us. "Sir, please conduct yourself with some respect." "I know you're still angry with me," his voice softened, tinged with pleading. "It was my fault back then. I searched for you for so long afterward, but it was as if you had vanished into thin air." "I've told you, I don't remember." I turned toward the door and made a polite gesture. "Please leave. Don't disturb my business." Daniel Shaw stared at me for a long moment, the pain in his eyes nearly spilling over. He picked up the bouquet of tulips, paid, but did not leave immediately. "I will come again." He left those words behind and turned to walk out of the flower shop. I leaned against the doorframe, watching his figure vanish around the street corner before I slowly exhaled. The cold sweat in my palm had already soaked the hem of my shirt. It's been three years, Daniel Shaw. I thought we would never see each other again. My phone rang; it was Felix Clark calling. His voice was warm and magnetic, like the gentle sunshine of spring. "Whitney, do you want to have lunch together? I happen to be near your flower shop." "Sure," I sniffled, trying to keep my voice steady, "I'll wait for you." After hanging up, I returned to the shop and looked at the photo Daniel had left on the counter. In the photo, we're laughing so happily, yet back then, I never could have imagined that this seemingly perfect love would end in such a tragic way.