"I like you, Tilly Flower."
She had been waiting for those six words for over twenty years.
So long, long enough to fade half a life into this endless stream of time, along with a once passionate heart that gradually cooled.
Sophia Phoenix watched the frown of difficulty crease Tilly Flower's brow, his body temperature dropping with her expression. Tilly Flower withdrew her wrist from his palm, bowed her head, and said softly, "Sorry, Sophia Phoenix." Her tone was full of regret, but none of it was what he wanted, "It's too late. I'm engaged, and my wedding is in a week. Sorry," she paused slightly, then added another phrase, "I'm sorry."
Actually, the person who should be saying sorry should never have been her.
But Tilly Flower felt, at this moment, she needed to say sorry.
A late confession is still a confession, and she was sorry for the love that could not be reciprocated.
Three years.
