Facing Mortality
Lina Everett learns she only has two months to live and decides to fulfill her dream of exploring America. Meanwhile, Jude James attends a blind date set up by his uncle, revealing his reluctance to move on from Lina despite her terminal condition.Will Lina's final journey bring her the peace she seeks, and can Jude truly let go?
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Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend: When the Café Door Closes
Let’s talk about the door. Not the grand, dramatic entrance of a hero or the slow creak of a haunted house—but the ordinary wooden door of Sakura City Café, with its brass handle and frosted glass pane, adorned with a cartoon Santa waving a sack of gifts and the words ‘Merry Christmas’ in bubbly script. That door is the hinge upon which the entire emotional architecture of Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend pivots. Because what happens *after* Jiang Xiaoying pushes it open is less about what she sees—and more about what she *chooses* to believe. She enters. Not confidently. Not hesitantly. With the precise neutrality of someone who has rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head, only to find reality far messier. Her cream trench coat flutters slightly as she steps inside, the scent of roasted coffee and cinnamon hanging in the air. The café is cozy, bookshelves lining the walls, soft jazz playing low in the background. And there he is: Lin Kangcheng, seated at Table 7, his back partially turned, his left hand wrapped around a white ceramic mug, steam rising in delicate spirals. Across from him sits a woman in a voluminous white faux-fur jacket, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She laughs—soft, melodic—and Lin Kangcheng responds with a tilt of his head, a smile that reaches his eyes. Genuine. Uncomplicated. The kind of smile Jiang Xiaoying hasn’t seen in months. Here’s the thing: the camera doesn’t cut to Jiang Xiaoying’s face immediately. It lingers on Lin Kangcheng’s profile—the way his brow relaxes, the slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes, the way his thumb strokes the rim of the mug as if it’s a talisman. He’s *present*. Fully. And that’s what guts her. Not jealousy. Not betrayal. The sheer, terrifying normalcy of it. Because in the last 90 days, Lin Kangcheng has been a man unraveling—typing late into the night, staring at blank PDFs, flinching at his own reflection in the laptop screen. He’s been haunted by files, by dates, by the ghost of a version of himself that may or may not have existed. And now, here he is, laughing over coffee like none of it matters. Jiang Xiaoying doesn’t approach. She stands just inside the threshold, her body half in shadow, half in light. Her fingers brush the strap of her brown leather bag—a habit, a grounding gesture. She watches as Lin Kangcheng leans forward, saying something that makes the woman across from him nod, her expression thoughtful. He gestures with his free hand, palm up, as if offering something. An explanation? An apology? A promise? The camera zooms in on his mouth, but no sound comes through. We’re left to interpret the shape of his lips, the tension in his jaw. Then—his eyes lift. Not toward the counter. Not toward the door. Directly at *her*. Time doesn’t freeze. It *thickens*. Like honey poured over glass. His smile doesn’t vanish. It transforms—into something uncertain, something searching. He doesn’t stand right away. He holds her gaze for three full seconds, long enough for her to register the shift: the warmth receding, replaced by a dawning awareness, a flicker of guilt, maybe even fear. Then he rises. Smoothly. Deliberately. He leaves the mug on the table, untouched, the steam now dissipating into the air like a sigh. He walks toward her. Not rushing. Not retreating. Moving with the careful cadence of someone approaching a live wire. When he reaches her, he doesn’t speak. He simply extends his hand—not to shake, not to grab, but to *offer*. His palm is open, upward, vulnerable. Jiang Xiaoying stares at it. Then, slowly, she places her own hand in his. Their fingers interlace. His grip is firm, but not crushing. Protective. Apologetic. She feels the callus on his thumb, the slight roughness of his knuckles—details she thought she’d forgotten, but hadn’t. Not really. ‘You came back,’ he says, finally. His voice is lower than she remembers. Rougher. ‘I had to,’ she replies. ‘You left the folder open.’ A beat. His eyebrows lift, just slightly. ‘Which one?’ ‘The one labeled ‘July 2nd’. The blank one.’ His breath hitches. Not much. Just enough. He glances past her, toward the table where the other woman sits, now watching them with quiet curiosity. He doesn’t look away from Jiang Xiaoying. ‘That wasn’t blank,’ he says, voice dropping to a near-whisper. ‘It was encrypted. Password-protected. I couldn’t open it.’ She studies his face. The honesty in his eyes is disarming. Because if he’s lying, he’s committing to the lie with terrifying conviction. And if he’s telling the truth… then who uploaded the scans? Who stamped the passport? Who *is* the man sitting across from her in the café, smiling like nothing’s broken? The scene cuts to earlier—Dr. Zhao, seated at his desk, flipping through a blue folder. His expression is grave, but not surprised. He pulls out a printed MRI report, compares it to a second one, then slides both into a manila envelope. He seals it with a red wax stamp bearing the hospital’s insignia. The camera lingers on the stamp: a stylized caduceus, entwined with a serpent. Symbol of healing. Symbol of deception. He places the envelope in a drawer, locks it, and turns to the camera—no, not the camera. To *us*. His lips move, but no sound emerges. Only his eyes speak: *You think you know the story. You don’t.* Back in the café, Lin Kangcheng squeezes Jiang Xiaoying’s hand. ‘I didn’t know you’d see it,’ he admits. ‘I thought I deleted it.’ ‘You did,’ she says. ‘But backups exist. Especially when someone wants you to remember.’ The implication hangs between them, heavy as the winter air outside. Someone *wanted* him to find that file. Someone wanted *her* to walk through that door. Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend isn’t about a love triangle. It’s about a conspiracy of silence—where the most dangerous lies aren’t spoken aloud, but buried in metadata, hidden in folder names, disguised as routine medical procedures. Jiang Xiaoying isn’t just confronting Lin Kangcheng. She’s confronting the architecture of her own doubt. Every time she’s questioned his memory, his behavior, his sudden obsession with old health records—she’s been doubting *herself*. And now, standing in the warm glow of the café, holding his hand like an anchor, she realizes the truth isn’t in the files. It’s in the space between his fingers and hers. In the way he still knows how to hold her, even after everything. The final shot is exterior. Jiang Xiaoying walks down the sidewalk, Lin Kangcheng a step behind her, neither speaking. The street is lined with bare trees, holiday decorations still clinging to lampposts. She glances over her shoulder—not at him, but at the café window, where the other woman is now standing, watching them leave. She raises a hand, not in farewell, but in acknowledgment. A silent pact. Jiang Xiaoying turns back, her pace steady. Lin Kangcheng catches up, his shoulder brushing hers. He doesn’t reach for her hand again. He doesn’t need to. The silence between them is no longer empty. It’s filled with everything they haven’t said—and everything they’re finally ready to face. Because Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend understands something fundamental: love isn’t tested by grand declarations or dramatic rescues. It’s tested in the quiet moments—when the door opens, when the file loads, when the hand is offered, and you have to decide: do you take it? Do you trust the man in front of you, or the data behind the screen? The beauty of this short film is that it refuses to give us the answer. It leaves us standing on the sidewalk, watching them walk away, wondering if the next 90 days will be spent rebuilding—or burying the truth deeper. And that, dear viewer, is the most haunting question of all.
Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend: The File That Changed Everything
There’s a quiet tension in the way Lin Kangcheng types—fingers hovering just above the keys, pausing between keystrokes like he’s afraid the next press might trigger something irreversible. The MacBook Pro screen glows under fluorescent office light, its desktop cluttered not with chaos, but with precision: five identical blue folders, each labeled with a date and the phrase ‘Health Examination Report’ in Chinese characters. He opens one. A PDF loads—a clean, clinical cover page featuring an illustration of a doctor in a white coat, smiling gently beside the title ‘健康体检报告’ (Health Examination Report). But his expression doesn’t soften. Instead, his jaw tightens. He scrolls. The file is empty. Not corrupted. Not missing. *Intentionally blank.* This isn’t the first time he’s done this. Earlier, we saw him open another folder—this one containing a single image file named ‘WeChatMOER.jpg’. He double-clicks. A thumbnail expands into full view: a man in scrubs, seated at a desk, holding a clipboard. The same man. The same posture. The same faint smile. But it’s not Lin Kangcheng. It’s someone else—someone who looks eerily like him, yet carries none of his hesitation. The image flickers, then vanishes as he closes the window with a sharp click. Cut to Dr. Zhao, older, more seasoned, wearing a crisp lab coat over a navy button-down, a red-and-white hospital badge pinned neatly to his left lapel. He sits across from Lin Kangcheng—not in a consultation room, but in what appears to be a private office, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains behind him. A potted plant sways slightly in the breeze from an open window. Dr. Zhao doesn’t speak immediately. He watches Lin Kangcheng’s hands—how they clench, how they unclench, how they rest on the edge of the laptop like they’re bracing for impact. Then he says, quietly, ‘You’ve been reviewing the MRI scans again.’ Lin Kangcheng doesn’t look up. ‘I need to see them side by side.’ ‘Side by side with what?’ A beat. Lin Kangcheng exhales. ‘With the ones from last year. Before the accident.’ Dr. Zhao leans forward, fingers steepled. ‘There was no accident.’ The silence that follows is heavier than any diagnosis. The camera lingers on Lin Kangcheng’s face—not a breakdown, not anger, but the slow dawning of realization, like watching a fog lift off a lake at dawn. His eyes flicker toward the laptop screen, where the Finder window still shows those five folders. One of them, now highlighted, bears a new name: ‘7月2日体检报告’ (July 2nd Health Examination Report). He clicks it open. This time, the PDF loads fully. Not a cover page. Not a blank page. A grid of black-and-white brain scans—axial slices, sagittal views, contrast-enhanced sequences. Each image is timestamped, annotated with radiologist notes in tiny font. Lin Kangcheng’s breath catches. He zooms in. There, in the lower right quadrant of slice #14, a subtle asymmetry. A shadow that wasn’t there before. Or was it? The editing here is masterful. The cuts between Lin Kangcheng’s face, the scans, Dr. Zhao’s steady gaze—they don’t rush. They let the weight settle. This isn’t medical drama; it’s psychological archaeology. Every file, every folder, every keystroke is a layer being peeled back. And beneath it all lies the central question of Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend: What if the person you think you are isn’t the person the data says you are? Later, the scene shifts. A different office. A woman in a navy blazer—Li Meiyu, the visa officer—sits behind a desk adorned with miniature American flags. Across from her, Jiang Xiaoying, dressed in a cream trench coat over a gray cardigan, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail, her expression unreadable. Li Meiyu flips through a stack of documents, her nails painted deep burgundy. She pauses at a passport. The camera zooms in: Jiang Xiaoying’s photo, her name printed clearly—Jiang Xiaoying—and beneath it, a stamp: ‘PASSED’. But the stamp is fresh. Too fresh. The ink hasn’t fully dried. Li Meiyu’s thumb smudges it slightly as she turns the page. ‘Your application is approved,’ Li Meiyu says, voice neutral. ‘You may proceed to the next stage.’ Jiang Xiaoying nods once. No smile. No relief. Just a slight tilt of the head, as if she’s recalibrating her internal compass. She reaches out, not for the passport, but for a small envelope tucked beneath the file. Inside: a single sheet of paper, typed in formal letterhead. The words are blurred in the shot, but the structure is unmistakable—a denial notice, dated three weeks prior. Jiang Xiaoying folds it slowly, deliberately, and slips it into her coat pocket. Li Meiyu watches her, eyes narrowing just a fraction. She knows. She *has* to know. The final sequence takes place outside a café called ‘Sakura City’, its windows decorated with cheerful Santa stickers and pine boughs. Christmas lights twinkle overhead. Jiang Xiaoying walks in, her steps measured, her gaze scanning the interior. She spots Lin Kangcheng immediately—he’s seated at a corner table, sipping from a white ceramic mug, his attention fixed on a woman across from him. She wears a fluffy white jacket, her back to the camera. Lin Kangcheng smiles. A real one. Warm. Unguarded. Jiang Xiaoying stops just inside the doorway. Her hand tightens on the strap of her brown leather bag. Then he sees her. His smile doesn’t vanish—it *fractures*. Like glass under pressure. He sets the mug down. Slowly. He stands. Walks toward her. Not with urgency, but with the gravity of someone stepping onto thin ice. When he reaches her, he doesn’t speak. He simply takes her hand—his fingers closing over hers, warm despite the winter chill. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she looks up at him, and for the first time, her expression shifts. Not anger. Not sadness. Something quieter. Something like surrender. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now,’ he says, voice barely above a whisper. She tilts her head, studying him—the lines around his eyes, the way his coat hangs slightly loose on his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hand that he tries to hide. ‘I was,’ she replies. ‘But I needed to see what you’d do when you found out.’ He blinks. ‘Found out what?’ She doesn’t answer. She just holds his gaze, and in that silence, the entire narrative of Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend crystallizes: this isn’t about visas or medical reports or even love. It’s about identity—how easily it can be forged, how fragile it is when confronted with evidence, and how desperately we cling to the version of ourselves we believe in, even when the data tells us otherwise. Lin Kangcheng thought he was reviewing health records. He was actually reviewing his own erasure. Jiang Xiaoying thought she was applying for a visa. She was auditioning for a role in someone else’s life. And Dr. Zhao? He wasn’t diagnosing a patient. He was bearing witness to a man trying to remember who he used to be—before the files were altered, before the photos were swapped, before the last 90 days began. The film doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t need to. The power lies in the ambiguity—the way a single folder can contain a lie, the way a stamped document can be both truth and deception, the way two people can stand inches apart and feel galaxies away. Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend isn’t just a romance. It’s a ghost story told through PDFs and passport stamps, where the haunting isn’t supernatural—it’s bureaucratic, digital, and devastatingly human.