On the street, people came and went.
"How is it, pretty?" Zhao Qingli raised her small hand, holding a crystal-clear pink flower.
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked at the young man in front of her.
Miss Zhao rarely came to such crowded places; she usually frequented more upscale venues.
And because of this.
In this bustling market street, filled with the breath of life, she found it novel.
"Are you asking about the flower or the person?" Jiang Ye asked with a smile.
"Both," Zhao Qingli twirled her black eyes, saying.
"The flower's not pretty," Jiang Ye replied.
Zhao Qingli was slightly stunned; she hadn't expected that answer.
Before she could wait for the second half of the sentence, Zhao Qingli couldn't help but ask, "Why isn't it pretty?"
Right after asking, she regretted a bit, what a silly question she asked?
Everyone's aesthetics are different; if it's not pretty, it's not pretty, there's no why.
