The year I could barely feed myself, I found him in a grimy back alley—a brilliant, scholarship kid who'd been savaged by the world. His eyes were hollow. "Do whatever you want with me." I did nothing of the sort. I just cleaned him up and helped him into a fresh, white shirt. Then, stammering, I told him, "Just... just live. Please." Years later, he taught himself everything he needed to get into the country's top university, eventually becoming its youngest doctoral advisor. One ordinary summer evening, as I was picking him up, he coldly rejected a girl whose smile was as bright as the sun. And for the first time, I heard him ask me, his voice tight with a confusion that terrified me: "What is... liking someone?" When I saw the expensive brooch she had given him clutched in his hand, I knew. It was time for me to leave. 1 As I was packing my last bag, ready to leave, I took one final look at the cramped apartment I’d called home for years. It was small and suffocating. The only good thing about it was the little cactus I’d managed to keep alive on the windowsill. I bent down and placed Nick’s slippers neatly on the top shelf of the shoe rack. With a final, metallic thud, the iron door slammed shut, kicking up a thin cloud of dust in the sunlight. 2 Before Nick left for his lecture, he’d shown me the deed to a property over breakfast. It was a beautiful, spacious new condo right in the heart of downtown. I had no idea how long he must have saved to afford it. "I'll pay you back," he’d said. "Slowly." "You don't... have to." The day I saved him, I never expected anything in return. His voice was cool. "Once I've paid you back, we're even." I silently pushed the plate of stir-fried shrimp and a side of cold vegetables toward him. Nick kept his head down as he ate, but I could still see the sharp, elegant lines of his profile. Looking at him now, I could faintly picture the high school boy he used to be, standing on the auditorium stage, the wind catching his shirt, his silhouette sharp and cool against the light. You don't always have to announce your love to the world. There's no rule that says every act of giving must be rewarded. He was finally becoming the person I always knew he could be: brilliant, successful, a distant moon shining brightly. Just having been by his side for so long… that was enough for me. I rested my chin in my palm, watching him, and said, seemingly out of nowhere, "Nick... you have to... keep living well." It was a shame my stutter had never gotten better. I hoped the men I’d be meeting for blind dates back in my hometown wouldn't hold it against me. 3 I thought back to that night. "Nick! Wait for me!" A beautiful, vibrant girl waved as she ran toward him. She’d been chasing after him for six months straight. I stood quietly in the shadows of a tree by the gate, admiring her with the same reverence I held for Nick. She was a force of nature, bright as the sun, expressing her love without fear. She came from a perfect, prominent family and had a personality that bubbled with life. Standing together, they looked like they were made for each other. At first, Nick was cold and impatient with her, avoiding her just as he’d always avoided everyone else, including me. But eventually, he began to soften. Only with her would he lower his guard, letting her joke with him, even allowing her casual touches. And then, finally, he came to me, clutching a gift she had pressed into his hands, and asked in a nervous, uncertain voice: "What is... liking someone?" We walked together into the moonlight, his shadow stretching out to cover mine. What did I say to him then? I remember stammering, but my words were earnest. "Liking someone is... I guess... it's when your heart just... leaps when you see them. When just thinking about them makes you smile." —"So you're the one who saved Nick? You're that pathetic, aren't you! You like him? Fine, we'll give you something to like!" The same animals who'd hurt Nick slammed my head into a bucket of filthy water in the girls' bathroom. "It’s being afraid... of losing everything. It's feeling every doubt like a knife." —"Nick! I'm taking you... to the hospital! Don't you fall asleep! You still have to... pay me back!" In the dead of winter, I screamed until my throat was raw, carrying him on my back—his wrists sliced open, half-unconscious from blood loss—stumbling toward the hospital. "It’s wanting to share... every word, every little thing, with him first." —"I worked five jobs... I made four hundred dollars. I bought... a cake. Happy birthday, Nick." I stood in the doorway, holding the cake, so happy I didn't even take off my shoes, just beaming at him. "It's... a feeling that's sour, and frustrating... but also so, so sweet." The traffic light clicked. I looked up. Nick was looking right into my eyes. 4 Bzzzt! The notification on my phone startled me awake. My cheeks felt itchy. I touched them and realized they were streaked with tears. My dream had been a chaotic blend of past and present, and it took me a long moment to clear my head before I opened the message. It was from Nick. Just two words. [Running late.] I scrolled up. Our entire chat history was just a few sparse, functional messages. Looking at it now, our relationship really was… empty. My stutter made me hate speaking, and Nick's personality, made worse by what had been done to him, meant he spoke even less. We lived in silence, each lost in our own world. You can't force someone to like you. And yet, back then, I’d foolishly dreamed that time and persistence could nurture love. It was time to finally let go of that hope. Suddenly, a series of cheerful pings sounded from my phone. [Clara, your advice was amazing! Nick finally agreed to have dinner with me at a real restaurant~] [I was so scared for a second there, I honestly thought you two were together.] [I'll be sure to bring a gift to thank you in person. And don't worry, I'll take good care of him. He won't be losing out by being with me.] She ended the message with a cute emoji of a character collapsing in happiness. Her joy was so infectious it even brought a small smile to my lips. I was a ghost from Nick's past. A piece of wreckage from the mud, a constant reminder of his deepest shame, a symbol of his most broken moments. She was different. She would rise with him. Her love was active and warm, and she could offer him resources and connections I never could. They would meet at the summit. Nick was already softening. The sun would eventually melt the ice. I couldn't stand in the way of him finding someone so much better than me. But in the next second, a single, fat tear splattered onto the screen. I belatedly raised a hand to wipe it away. Pathetic. I couldn't even properly wipe away my own tears. 5 After a thirty-hour bus ride, I was back in my hometown. The first thing I did was visit my mother's grave and leave some incense. I sat there for a while before heading back to the small apartment I’d rented. The landlady told me my gambling, drunkard of a father had his leg broken by debt collectors and had skipped town. I didn't have much baggage, so I was settled in by noon. As I sat on the bed with my eyes closed, all I could see were Nick's hopeless, empty eyes from that night, his body covered in a sticky, disgusting fluid. He used to tell me, his voice eerily calm, "I want to die." In our small town, being smart, good-looking, and an orphan was a sin. Especially for a prodigy like Nick, who stood out like a crane among chickens. The story was a cliché. The girlfriend of the biggest asshole in school had a crush on him. When he rejected her, she falsely accused him of harassment. When a group of them cornered him in an alley, even his attempts to fight back were laughable. In the nights that followed, he'd curl into a ball on the bed, his body wracked with tremors he couldn't control, his own mind trying to destroy itself. Back then, to support him, I worked five jobs, constantly rushing from one to the next. We lived in a rundown apartment where the water and electricity were always being shut off. I’d eat cheap pickled vegetables that cost pennies just to save a few extra dollars for him. Life got a little better after he started earning a salary, but I never wanted to spend his money. I kept working as a kitchen hand in the restaurant downstairs. It's strange how you are with someone you love. Pride takes over. You never want to feel like you're beneath them. That afternoon, I found a job in the kitchen of a local diner. The pay in a small town wasn't great, but it was enough for me. It wasn't until I finished my shift that I had a chance to check my phone. There were only two messages from Nick. The first one: [Where are you?] The second was sent at four o'clock this morning: [You've abandoned me, haven't you?] The words made my eyes burn. It's not abandonment. It's not wanting to drag each other down anymore. I saved him, and he felt obligated to stay by my side. That kind of relationship was twisted from the start. And besides, I was almost thirty. I really did want to settle down. It all sounded so melodramatic. I typed out a long explanation, then deleted it all and sent just three words: [Take care.] There was no reply. When I clicked on his profile, I saw he'd posted something. It was a picture of two hands, fingers intertwined. The caption read: [My future.] He was making it official. Nick had a girlfriend. I stared at it for a long moment, then liked the post. And silently, in my heart, I wished him: Happy birthday, Nick. May you spend every year from now on with the person you love. 6 On my way home, I saw my neighbor fanning the door to his apartment, a frustrated look on his face. The acrid smell of burnt food wafted out. I recognized him. He was the new teacher, here with a volunteer program. We'd nodded to each other a few times. He was refined and elegant, with a gentle voice that didn't match his eyes—eyes that were far too charming, the kind that promised love and trouble in equal measure. I felt a bit awkward just walking past. As I put the key in my lock, I offered a polite, casual invitation. "You haven't... eaten yet, have you? You could... come over to my place..." He looked up, his face filled with gratitude. Before I could finish, he said warmly, "That would be wonderful, thank you." "..." I hadn't expected him to be so forward. I managed an awkward smile. There was no backing out now. I opened the door and invited him in. With a guest present, I kept the meal simple. But Leo’s reaction was dramatic. After one bite, he actually started to cry. "I'm so sorry," he explained. "It's just been so long since I've had a proper home-cooked meal. And this is delicious." "Thank you." Remembering the burnt smell from his apartment, I just lowered my head and ate, waiting for him to finish and leave. I never expected him to get up and start washing the dishes. I frowned slightly, watching him put on my Winnie-the-Pooh apron and stand with his back to me at the sink. I could see the faint movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, the veins on the back of his hands standing out, straining against the fabric of the apron that was clearly too small for him. "..." I looked away, swallowing reflexively. The sound was loud in the quiet room. Leo paused for a second, then continued washing. When he was done, he cleared his throat, finally revealing his true purpose. "Could I... maybe... eat here from now on?" He saw me frown. "I'll pay you more than the restaurant does," he said quickly. "Just to cook for me. I'll do all the dishes, too." I hesitated. The landlady had told me about him: "That new teacher, your neighbor? He's already rescued five stray cats and is paying for two local kids' schooling out of his own pocket." A man like that couldn't be a bad person, could he? And besides... being all alone in this place, so familiar yet so foreign... it was harder than I could bear. 7 From that day on, Leo came over every day after work. First, he started bringing fresh ingredients. Then, he started bringing the stray cats he was fostering. "This one can do a backflip," he'd say with a perfectly straight face. Meanwhile, Nick went from silence to sending me a message every few days, always in the dead of night. [Where's the hand cream?] [I can't find that white shirt.] [Did you take the little ceramic dog we made together?] ...And so on. At first, I had the patience to reply: [It's in the drawer of the TV stand. In the small cabinet above the closet. The ceramic dog broke when we moved...] [You should move into the new condo. This place is too far from the university, and it's not comfortable. Don't make Isabelle suffer with you. You're just used to me being around. You'll have to learn to live on your own eventually.] He would be silent for a while, then send a cold voice message: [Don't flatter yourself.] I laid everything out for him, but he ignored it all. Leo asked me once, "Is that a close friend?" Who was he? I lowered my eyes, staring blankly at the dough on the cutting board. "Just... someone unimportant." Leo's gaze fell on my phone's wallpaper. It was a photo of a boy and a girl, sitting side-by-side on a swing set, their expressions neutral. It was clearly taken by a stranger. They weren't close, almost distant, yet something about it made Leo lose all desire to ask any more questions. Late one night, a video call from Nick came through. On the screen, he was pale, curled tightly on the sofa, his eyes losing focus as he stared into the camera. It felt like I’d been struck from behind. I shot up from my chair, a wave of unspeakable panic washing over me. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely hold the phone. "Nick! What... what stupid thing are you doing!" His lips were white. He struggled to lift his eyelids, but they fell heavily shut. He’d lost the fight. The phone tumbled through the air, and the last thing I saw was a horrifying, blinding splash of red. 8 What if Nick died? If he died, what would I do? My body was shaking uncontrollably. I booked the fastest bus ticket I could find, my insides twisting with a fear so profound it felt like it would tear me apart. Just as I finished packing, my phone rang again. I swiped to answer. It was Isabelle. [He's out of danger, but he's still unconscious.] [I thought you were with him. He took time off and was at home. He hasn't eaten in five days.] [I found antidepressants on his coffee table. The doctor said he's had a severe depressive relapse.] [What on earth happened to him in the past...] I couldn't read any further. I just stared at the words "severe depressive relapse," a dull ache spreading from my stomach to my heart. Eventually, I had to grab onto the sofa as my body started to heave with dry, painful retches. "Mom! Please! I'll be good, I promise! Dad's a monster, but you still have me!" "I'll get you out of here, I swear! Don't jump! Please! Mom!!!" The blare of car horns, the howl of the wind on the rooftop, all deafening. I was back in the hospital, the sharp smell of antiseptic burning my nostrils. Nick had just woken up, his expression vacant. He clenched his fists so tightly the wounds on his wrists threatened to split open again. They both had severe depression. It seemed that even suffering could be a shared experience. I know it's foolish to tie one person's life to another's. Who would even care? But I had no other choice. I looked up, my eyes red, and said to him, "Nick... just pretend... you're living for me. You have to pay me back. You have to show me what the world looks like... from the top." What was I even thinking back then? He had such a brilliant future ahead of him. He was finally climbing out of that darkness, and now, because of a few careless words from someone like me, he had nearly thrown it all away, nearly died. I couldn't save my mother. And I couldn't save him. My father was right. I was a curse. Anyone who got close to me was doomed.
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