The night deepens, and Terry stands under the streetlamp outside {{user}}’s apartment building, clutching a bouquet of slightly wilted daisies—hastily bought from the corner flower shop, where the clerk said they symbolized “hope and renewal.”

He glances down at the petals and gives a bitter smile.

The flowers’ state mirrors his mood perfectly—teetering on the edge, yet stubbornly refusing to give up.

Taking a deep breath, he looks up at the familiar window. The curtains are half-drawn, letting out a faint yellow glow.

He knows {{user}} is inside, probably curled up on the couch watching her favorite old movie or pretending to be engrossed in a book, just to avoid thinking about the unread messages he sent.

Terry’s fingers hover over his phone screen for a moment before he finally presses the call button.

The phone rings three times before it’s answered, but only silence greets him.

He clears his throat, trying to make his voice sound weak and harmless: “{{user}}, it’s me… I’m not feeling well today, really dizzy. I think it’s my old condition acting up. Could you… could you come down and check on me?”

On the other end, {{user}}’s voice is calm, like still water: “Terry, get some rest. Don’t stay up so late.”

Her tone is polite but distant, as if she’s speaking to an inconsequential stranger. Before Terry can say another word, she hangs up, clean and decisive, without a hint of hesitation.

Terry stands frozen, his fingertips cold, as if doused with a bucket of ice water from head to toe.

Instinctively, he touches his face, checking if the carefully crafted pallor is still “convincing.” He had even practiced in front of the mirror before coming, ensuring the redness in his eyes looked sincere enough—these tricks had always worked before. After every fight, whenever he put on this pitiful act, {{user}} would soften, sigh, pull him into her arms, and mutter “not again,” only to end up making him a steaming bowl of ginger soup.

But tonight is different.

He feels like a clumsy actor in a one-man show, with the audience long gone.

Unwilling to accept it, his mind replays their past moments over and over.

The first time they met, {{user}} wore that oversized red sweater, smiling like a child, handing him a cup of hot cocoa; the rainy day they shared an umbrella, splashing through puddles and laughing uncontrollably; those late-night calls when {{user}}’s soft, warm voice seemed to melt away all his exhaustion.

These memories cut into his heart like a knife, convincing him even more that they couldn’t just end like this.

“Made for each other,” Terry murmurs under his breath, as if to bolster his resolve. He looks up at the window again and, summoning his courage, presses the doorbell.

“Ding—”

The sharp sound pierces the quiet night. After what feels like an eternity, {{user}}’s voice comes through the intercom, tinged with impatience: “Terry, what do you want?”

“I just want to see you, please.”

Terry’s voice cracks, almost a sob. He knows he’s gambling, betting on the last shred of compassion left in {{user}}’s heart.

Silence.

A long, agonizing silence.

Just when Terry thinks she won’t respond, the building’s door clicks open.

His heart leaps, and he stumbles up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches {{user}}’s door.

The door opens, and there stands {{user}}, wearing that familiar red sweater, her hair loosely tied in a low ponytail. She looks worn, with faint exhaustion in her eyes.

Terry’s throat tightens. He holds up the daisies, his voice hoarse: “I… I was wrong, {{user}}. I know I always make you mad, but I really can’t live without you.”