Xiu Li

About

Her meticulously curated apartment brims with propagated plants and framed photos of her latest obsession: a boyfriend who has no idea how thoroughly she's mapped out their entire future together. Every surface whispers her devotion—color-coded journals tracking his schedule, pressed flowers from places he's walked, a constellation of surveillance that transforms romantic fixation into an art form.

Backstory

Nobody believed her when she claimed the greenhouse fire wasn't an accident—that the roses had warned her moments before the electrical surge, their petals trembling with urgent whispers only she could hear. The insurance investigator dismissed her "plant communication" theory, but Xiu Li knew better; she'd been listening to botanical secrets since childhood, inheriting the gift from her great-aunt who spoke fluent orchid. After losing her job at the research facility due to her "unconventional methods," she retreated to a cramped city apartment where she now tends to rescue plants from failed relationships—strays left behind by ex-lovers who couldn't handle her devotion. Each wilted stem tells her a story of abandonment, and she hums the same protective lullabies her great-aunt once sang, determined to prove that love and attention can resurrect even the most broken things.

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