That year, Yan Ningning turned fourteen.

She was in eighth grade—a year packed with turning points. A boy named Lu Huai developed social anxiety disorder after certain incidents.

Yan Ningning knew bits of what happened, but never addressed it directly.

What truly haunted her memory was the illness she herself faced that year.

The shadow in her mind felt like the sky collapsing—a crushing weight.

From diagnosis to hospitalization, young Yan Ningning moved through it all in a daze, while her parents wept silently.

By the time she fully grasped it, she’d already left school temporarily, swallowing handfuls of pills daily. Snatches of her parents’ hushed talks warmed her heart yet deepened her despair.

“We *have* to save her. She’s only fourteen… We brought her into this world—we owe her happiness. What’s life worth if we can’t save our own child?!”

“I’ll borrow money… take three jobs. If needed… maybe ask Lu Huai’s parents for help…”

They refused to quit treatment, no matter the strain on the family.

Yan Ningning had once cried easily—understandable for a girl. But after that day, she stopped. She wouldn’t add emotional worry to her parents’ burdens.

She forced herself to be strong, though she knew recovery wasn’t guaranteed. Her parents knew too: their efforts might drain everything and change nothing.

Fear of death. Guilt toward her parents. Doubt in fate.

She even refused visits from classmates and teachers. She couldn’t bear exposing this fragile, fading version of herself.

Then Lu Huai came.

Despite his severe social anxiety—barely speaking to her lately—he arrived alone at the hospital, at her ward.

More than her aversion to visitors, she wondered: *How did he make it here alone?*

He murmured he’d biked—not bus, not taxi. Short distance, yes, but he’d pushed through every fear just to see her.

He still couldn’t meet her eyes, but edged closer to her bedside, voice tight with worry:

“I knew you were hospitalized on day one… but I’m only here now. I’m sorry…”

His guilt was palpable. Strangely, her sadness softened. Watching him flustered, she almost smiled.

“Why apologize? It’s not your fault I’m sick.”

He glanced at her, flinched away, muttering softly—the ward so quiet she caught every word:

“Because… as a friend, I’ve been negligent…”

Yes. They were friends. Very, very long-time friends.

“It’s okay… Just coming means a lot. Though… maybe I won’t be your friend much longer.”

Hearing her self-abandoning words, the shy boy flushed crimson, staring at her with fierce conviction:

“No! You *will* get better!”

When she looked back, he ducked his head, trembling.

She couldn’t muster more gloom. Nodding weakly: “I hope so.”

Talk remained sparse. Yet Lu Huai lingered, reluctant to leave—as if gathering courage for the return trip.

Silence stretched between them.

Finally: “I’ll visit again. Please… get well soon.”

Yan Ningning didn’t believe it—not that *he* lied. But for someone with his anxiety, today’s visit had cost immense courage. She’d seen the sweat beading his brow at the door.

*“I’ll come again” felt as hollow as “next time for sure.”*

She watched leaves drift past the window, hugging her blanket tight.

But the next day—while her parents stepped out—he came.

Not only came. Brought a tiny red flower.

When she asked why:

He avoided her gaze, voice barely a whisper: “Online said… giving a sick friend a red flower daily helps them heal faster…”

Flustered, he added quickly: “I know it’s not magic. Might do nothing… But this… this is all I can offer.”

Yan Ningning—resolved never to cry again—felt her eyes sting.

He did little. Yet made her feel deeply, truly seen.

He came the third day too. Always when her parents were gone—carefully timed. Always with a red flower.

In her world of dread, a beam of light broke through.

This light spoke little. Looked nervous. Was utterly ordinary.

Yet it warmed her. Made her feel *wanted*. Made her want to live.

He even brought his schoolbag. Packed with textbooks and notes.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you *will* recover,” he said. “Falling behind in class would hurt later. So I took notes… so you won’t fall too far.”

Handing her the books, he scratched his head, voice timid: “My handwriting’s messy… Ask if you can’t read it.”

Playfully spoiled, she shoved the books back: “I can’t read *any* of it. Explain it to me?”

His eyes widened. He looked away instantly—face redder than the flower. Adorably flustered.

Yet he believed her. Read every note aloud, word by trembling word.

Gaze never meeting hers. Voice unsteady.

Those moments were brief. He couldn’t even laugh freely at her jokes.

But Yan Ningning felt happy. Content.

Days passed under the quiet care of this shy, ordinary boy. As red flowers filled the glass jar she’d prepared, hope arrived:

A risky surgery. Careful recovery. A chance to heal.

Her parents feared the risk. Yan Ningning volunteered without hesitation.

No grand reason. She wanted to live. To stay with her parents… and *him*—the boy who fought his fears to stand by her.

When she told Lu Huai:

His joy burst free. “I *knew* you’d get better!” he beamed, childlike.

*He was just a child too, wasn’t he?*

Smiling with familiar playfulness, she said: “After surgery… I *must* see you waiting for me.”

The surgery succeeded.

But waking up—parents, relatives, classmates surrounded her.

Lu Huai was absent.

A trace of disappointment tinged her smile.

*He broke his promise.*

She knew… public settings terrified him. Knew he’d already given so much.

Yet… sadness remained.

Discharged home, she stubbornly didn’t tell him she’d returned.

But at the door, her father handed her a red flower:

“From Lu Huai. He’s sorry he couldn’t come.”

The jar overflowed with flowers she’d brought home. Back in her room, impulse flared—*throw them all away*.

*He promised to fight for his friend. I was his best friend. Couldn’t he try harder?*

She wasn’t mature then. The hurt was real.

But she hesitated. Holding the flower, she noticed something tucked inside.

Unfolding it—Lu Huai’s neat, delicate script:

*“Sorry… I truly couldn’t come. Parents said… many waited for your discharge. I bless you from home. P.S. Every red flower I gave you has a note inside.”*

*Seeing the words felt like seeing him—shy, nervous, even in ink.*

Curious, she poured out the jar. Unfolded each flower.

*Ningning, I heard you were hospitalized. I was so sad. You’re my best friend. In class, you’re the only girl who never made me nervous… Embarrassing, but true. I wanted to visit… but crowds on the road terrified me. I’m sorry. You truly are my best friend…*

*I finally saw you! Biking there scared me, but seeing you okay made me so happy… Wish I’d given the flower then. Online said it helps sick friends heal.*

*You didn’t see the note inside—good. If you do… please don’t mention it. I’m shy about it. Just read quietly. I bless you daily…*

*I’m sad I can do so little. Can’t even chat to cheer you up. But you’re my best friend. I can’t bear the thought of you… leaving this world. I won’t imagine life without you. Hope you heal—even if I never make new friends, never beat my anxiety. I still hope.*

*I *know* you’ll heal! Flipped a coin: heads = you recover. Three heads in a row! So I’ll take notes daily. Someone smart like you shouldn’t fall behind. My grades aren’t great… but I’ll listen hard.*

*Got called on in class for paying *too* close attention… Stammered. Classmates laughed—thought I was faking. But I won’t quit. This is one of the few meaningful things I can do for you. It *must* mean something… right?*

Tears spilled freely now. Nose stung. Eyes burned.

*“Mom said… before Grandpa passed, a shooting star streaked across the sky.”*

“It’s said that when someone precious to you is about to leave, signs like this appear. But I’ve been watching the sky these past few days—so many stars, shining so brightly… yet no shooting stars. Really, none at all! So… you won’t leave this world, right?”

“You once said that if you were gone, you’d feel terribly guilty toward your parents. But I know—deep down—so many classmates are truly hoping for you to get better and come back. Please don’t dwell on those thoughts. So many people are wishing for your recovery. I can’t force everyone to show care or send blessings… but you must believe this: the moment you return, all of us will be overjoyed.”

“When I heard about your surgery—and that there’s real hope for a full recovery—I felt genuinely happy… You said you hoped to see me waiting outside the operating room afterward… I was so touched you’d consider me that kind of friend. But… the moment I imagine all those people gathered there, I just can’t overcome this fear to stand among them. Even though I desperately want to wait for you, to see you walk out smiling… Your surgery *will* succeed. I’m so sorry I might not be there. You’ll be upset with me, won’t you? Maybe even angry… You might think, ‘She always called me her best friend, yet at the final moment, she couldn’t overcome something so small for me.’ Maybe you’ll stop seeing me as a friend… But you’ll always be *my* best friend—the one I never, ever want to lose. As long as you get better… nothing else matters.”

“I hope you heal. I hope to see you back in class again, smiling. A girl as sweet and lovely as you—if you vanished, even God would call it a tragedy.”

“If your recovery is the price… I’d give you every bit of good luck I’ll ever have. Even if I have little to give… whatever is mine, I’ll give it all to you…”

Many little red paper flowers could no longer be folded back to their original shapes.

Tears had soaked them—but it didn’t matter.

In her heart, a garden bloomed, filled entirely with little red flowers.

They flourished, lush and dense.

They were sweet and resilient.

They would never wither.