His Stand-In Loved Someone Else

To get out of it, I found a girl who looked even more like his white moonlight than I did, and I arranged for her to appear by Nathan King’s side. I taught her the way the white moonlight dressed.

"Actually, he never touched me even once."

She came to me in tears, begging me to make Nathan fall in love with her.

"I wired you some money. Move out of my place tonight."

I was eating breakfast when I got that message. The newspaper on the creamy marble table looked oddly conspicuous—a blown-up photo took up the whole page.

In the photo, a woman was leaning against Nathan King’s shoulder, smiling shyly.

Three years ago, Nathan and I were photographed by paparazzi in just this same pose—our relationship made public—and it made perfect sense that I moved into his villa.

Now, he was telling me the same thing with a photo: Claire Bennett, you’ve been replaced.

Mrs. Wang stood behind me, worried. I knew she feared I’d do something reckless—cry, throw a scene, act like those other women.

She overestimated me. I calmly finished the last meal I would eat in that house, then went upstairs to pack.

Before I walked out the door, I pointed at the woman’s face in the picture and smiled. “She does look more like Hazel,” I said.

(2) For three years I was Nathan King’s public girlfriend, even though what we had felt more like an arrangement.

He was the only son of the King family, and I was a girl who had just stepped out into the world.

Three years ago I worked at a café in front of Waverly University and met Nathan, the trustee’s son.

He sat by the window—arched brows, striking eyes—everything about him suggested privilege. The front desk girl whispered to me while prepping that his watch alone was worth a fortune.

I didn’t know designer names, but when I carried his coffee over, I froze.

He looked up at the same time I did. We didn’t say anything, until he finally asked in a husky voice, “What’s your name?”

“Claire Bennett.”

After that, things happened so naturally I became Nathan’s lover.

I always knew clearly that he didn’t love me, and I kept my distance accordingly.

He set the guest room aside for me, so I never barged into his master bedroom. I pretended not to notice the photo on his bedside table—the one of a woman who looked six parts like me.

Because of that, year after year, the women at his side changed and changed, and I remained.

He held me, kissed me; in intimate moments he called me “Claire,” but every month the deposit of extra tens of thousands into my bank account reminded me we weren’t a couple—we were an arrangement that met mutual needs.

I didn’t need his money, really. I didn’t care whether he loved me or how many women he’d been with. I only wanted to see him smile, because when he smiled he looked exactly like Evan Moore.

(3) I’d already picked out the apartment long before Nathan planned to discard me. I had wanted to leave him.

The Hazel in the photo wore a white dress and a shy smile. I saw that look once and it stuck.

Afterward I deliberately nudged myself to match that image. I dyed my hair back to black and stopped wearing high heels.

Whenever Nathan saw me like that, his gaze softened until it seemed to brim with tenderness. He tucked hair behind my ear and pulled me close.

I knew he saw someone else through me. Who doesn’t project someone onto another?

All my effort to please him was to get that smile, to conjure the shadow of a boy, to fool myself for one moment.

Until I could no longer fool myself.

No matter how much Nathan resembled him, they were still different. No one could replace Evan—just as I could never truly replace Hazel.

So I found a girl who looked even more like Hazel, arranged for her to enter Nathan’s world, taught her Hazel’s tastes and style, told her how to make Nathan fall.

I knew Nathan would take the bait.

Sure enough, a month later I got that text, and I detached myself as if it were the most natural thing.

I threw away every white dress and pair of canvas shoes.

I sat on the couch in my apartment until the ashtray overflowed with butts.

I wasn’t the naive girl Nathan must have assumed I was.

In the curl of smoke, I inevitably thought of Evan Moore again.

I was sixteen—brash, withdrawn.

After my parents’ divorces and remarriages, I floated like driftwood: unwanted and unnoticed.

Evan’s appearance was the first light that seeped into my world.

I was odd, my grades were poor, and the teacher put Evan next to me, hoping he would influence me to study.

Once I saw the seating chart, I understood the plan and met my new desk mate with hostility.

I lay face down on the desk to sleep, hoping he would feel my contempt and leave, or report me like my former seatmates had and get moved.

He didn’t.

After two classes I woke to see him writing beside me; annoyed, I kicked the desk.

He turned, then pointed to the neat stack of new textbooks on my desk and said, “You fell asleep. I picked these up for you.”

The irritation drained away. I mumbled, “Oh.”

He asked, “What’s your name?”

“Claire Bennett.”

“Nice name,” he said.

(4) I woke again in the middle of the night. My phone had nothing on it but a few system notifications.

I smirked at myself—Nathan must already be lost in his new woman’s arms.

I tidied a little, took a shower. When I came back, unread messages started popping up.

It was Nathan’s sister, Olivia King: “Did you and my brother break up?”

“Where are you now?”

“Did you two have a fight?”

I replied with a single “Mm” to her first question, then closed the app.

She had been sheltered all her life and always believed what we had was a normal romance. She’d visited the villa, seen me, called me sister-in-law with a sweet lyric. She’d grab my hand and say, “Claire, my brother has never treated anyone like this before. You’re the first woman he ever brought home.”

Back then I pretended to be shy and smiled, but the words didn’t move me—

He trusted me because he knew I wouldn’t cry or throw myself around. Even keeping me around wouldn’t inconvenience him.

As for Olivia, she must have seen the paper and assumed we’d argued; she didn’t know I was just a canary someone had released.

I closed my phone, then Olivia rang.

Her voice trembled with sobs. “Sis, please come back. My brother’s furious…”

I blinked. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I came home with him today and when he heard Mrs. Wang say you had left, he smashed things.”

“Just please come back, Claire…”

I hesitated, then said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

By the time the driver pulled into the villa neighborhood it was nearly three a.m., but the lights downstairs were still on.

I’d left my keys behind, so I rang the bell. Mrs. Wang opened the door.

Her face when she saw me was complicated—relief threaded with discomfort.

Nathan’s voice sounded from the inside: “Who is it?”

I slipped past Mrs. Wang. The room looked neat—no signs of anything having been smashed.

Nathan sat on the couch in his pajamas, looking indifferent. “What are you doing here?”

I started, “Olivia asked me to come…”

“Enough,” he cut me off. “Do you think this is your home? Coming and going as you please?”

He stood and walked over to me, towering, looking down.

“What, not enough money? Regretting it?”

Up close I could see faint kiss marks at the base of his neck.

A stone dropped in my chest, but instead of answering his barbed questions I found myself oddly light and smiling. “Got it. I’ll go now.”

I turned and left, making sure to shut the door behind me.

(5) I looked at my phone. The screen still showed my “Wait” message. Olivia hadn’t followed up, and I didn’t ask.

Maybe she’d been joking—or pulling my leg. I didn’t care anymore.

I bought the café in front of Waverly University and had it renovated.

What I’d never told Nathan was that I never liked white—never liked white dresses or white gardenias. I’d always been the kind of person who painted her nails every bright color and thrust her hand in front of Evan like an offering; I’d never been one to stay small.

I stripped the café of cozy trinkets and built an edgier space: industrial walls lined with records, offset wooden tables that bloomed with roses.

Bright red. Vivid.

I enjoyed busy, fulfilling days—watching work progress little by little, seeing my dream take shape.

Compared to those three years of sitting quietly on the garden swing pretending to be an innocent high school girl, this felt like being seventeen again—alive.

Calmness belonged to Hazel. Claire Bennett had never been quiet.

During this time Nathan hardly sat still either.

The girl I’d pushed forward was Lily Summers, a fresh-faced model. Nathan doted on her—magazines, ads, dinners at fancy restaurants.

I only knew this from gossip or Lily’s social feed. Sometimes I noticed headlines and kept scrolling. I never actively searched him out.

I remembered once when we were hunched on the couch watching TV like ordinary lovers—his arm thrown over my shoulder, his fingers twirling my hair.

He turned to me and said, “Claire, you’re so beautiful. Let me get you into movies, okay?”

Then a voice inside me resisted: why expose me to the world like that? To make Hazel see? To set me up as a counterfeit to be mocked?

Instead, I hooked my arm around his neck and pouted, “No. I only want you to see me.”

(6) In the three years after that I didn’t work, I didn’t socialize. Nathan once tried to bring me into his elite circle, but I always pushed back.

Faces that once mocked or buttered me up faded from my life the day I moved out of the villa. Contact stopped.

I thought the new shop opening would mean just me and a few college part-timers. I never expected to run into someone I didn’t.

“Claire.”

He was in a suit, an expensive watch gleaming on his wrist—completely at odds with the boy I remembered, the one with the close-cropped hair who still had a kid’s face.

“Luke?”

The name slipped out.

However many years it had been since I’d seen Evan Moore, it was the same amount of time since I’d last seen Luke Harper.

Back in our uniform days, we’d bickered and fought.

In a basketball match we lost because someone cheated; he got mad and threw a punch, only to wind up with a bruise, collapsed on the infirmary bed while Evan cleaned his wound and I turned my back and sobbed like crazy.

He’d used my math textbook as a pillow. When he woke up, holding the drool-soaked book like it was precious, he apologized like a tiny, trembling adult. The guy who never showed up to class on time brought me breakfast for a week with a sour face.

…Some people exist just to remind you who you used to be—and what you lost along the way.

Seeing Luke made one thing clear again: in the past seven years, I had never forgotten Evan. He was a book I’d hidden deep in a closet, and Luke had become the key that opened it.

It was also Luke who, in the school auditorium, in the dark press of people, stood beside me watching Evan—the shining kid on stage—and suddenly turned to me and said, “Let it go, Claire.”

Let it go?

How could I let it go? The boy on stage wore a suit and all the spotlights were on him, yet only I knew the piece he was playing—the piano song I loved most.

Memories hit like a storm. faces from the past whooshed by.

All I could do in that moment was take the hand he offered and answer, “Long time no see.”

(7)
“Claire, hurry up!”

Outside, Luke was shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Hurry about what? I’m looking for it!”

“Strange—doesn’t that old hag always put things in this cabinet? — Luke, come here—Luke?”

I sat up from behind the desk and peered out, only to meet a blank, expressionless face.

“Claire!”

The PA system outside kept blaring the morning calisthenics. Luke and I stood in the dean’s office, shrinking like a pair of quail.

“Tell me, you two! How many times is this now?”

The dean was a fifty-year-old woman, waving her finger at me, indignant. “The day before yesterday! The day before yesterday you were knitting in math class and I caught you. And now today you’re climbing through the window into the office!”

I mumbled, “That wasn’t a sweater… it was a scarf…”

Smack!

She slammed her hand on the desk, panting.

Luke tugged my sleeve and gave me a look, then, with a pained expression, said, “Teacher, don’t blame Claire. She’s making this as a gift for her mom.”

The heavy breathing stopped at once.

The dean looked at me, suspicion in her gaze.

“Is that true?”

“I…”

Luke gave my sleeve another little tug.

“Yeah, teacher. My mom’s birthday is coming. I couldn’t think of anything to give her, so I thought I’d knit a scarf. But there’s no time at home, so I brought it to school.”

Suddenly, the embarrassment belonged to her.

The dean coughed and shifted posture. “Fine. On account of your filial piety, I’ll let it slide this time. But no knitting during class.”

“I know! I understand! Thank you, Teacher!!”

In the corridor, I hugged the chaotic ball of yarn and kept rubbing my face against it.

Luke puffed his chest and gave himself a thumbs-up. “See? Your man Luke’s the one who handled it. Go thank me.”

I grinned. “Thanks—on behalf of my mom, who’s just gotten married and is honeymooning in Sanya, thank you for the scarf!”

After the banter I bolted, ignoring Luke’s frantic cries behind me.

“Claire! Stop!”

I halted in front of a classroom door.

Not because of Luke’s shouting—because Evan was standing there.

He frowned. “Where were you going?”

I waved the yarn in a showy way. “To retrieve the birthday gift that belongs to you.”

Evan’s face went soft with helplessness. “Claire, it’s still summer.”

“Then you can wait until winter to wear it. What, you don’t like it?”

I knew he couldn’t resist this kind of teasing, and I knew I was pressing his buttons.

Still, he raised his hands as if surrendering and said, “I wouldn’t have the nerve.”

On his birthday, he surprisingly invited us to his house.

When the taxi dropped us off at the gated villa community, I felt a little lost.

Luke slapped my backpack, making me stumble forward a few steps. “C’mon, what are you dawdling for?”

I turned. “Evan’s family is this rich?”

“Yeah. His parents bought this place to help him concentrate on studying. See? Turns out I’m not the only rich idiot.”

“Rich idiot” was my nickname for Luke.

If his father hadn’t donated a building to the school, Luke wouldn’t have gotten away with fighting and playing hooky every day.

But Evan was different.

At the time I didn’t understand why I treated their backgrounds so differently, but looking back from adulthood, the girl I’d been knew it clearly—

It was an uncontrollable, humiliating inferiority in front of someone you liked.

That’s why when Luke gave Evan a limited-edition racing car model and bragged about how hard it was to get, I waved my hand when Evan looked at me and said, “It’s gone.”

“What?”

Evan blinked.

“Lost it. I looked everywhere today and couldn’t find it.”

Luke panicked, yelling, “What? How? That was half a month’s work!”

I rolled my eyes at him, then turned to Evan with a sweet smile. “It was ugly anyway. I’ll knit you a better one next time.”

I lied.

That was the first lie I told Evan.

The ugly scarf was actually wrapped in a sky-blue box and tucked safely in my backpack.

Evan—so good at grades, so good at piano, so well-bred—couldn’t be seen wearing a cheap scarf.

He’d be made fun of.

The gift he deserved was a limited-edition model, a villa, or something even better.

Anything but that messy ball of yarn.

I don’t know if Evan saw through me, but he didn’t say anything. He just laid his hand lightly on my head and looked at me very seriously. “Claire, I told you—I’ll wear whatever you make. Whatever you make, I’ll like.”

For a moment I wanted to tell him the truth, but that small, shameful dignity won out.

Pride is a strange thing.

I could embarrass myself climbing a wall in front of Luke, or sit in Mr. King’s luxury car with a calm face while everyone whispered, but I could not, not ever, lose face in front of Evan.

Not for anything.

I wouldn’t stay away from someone because they weren’t good enough—but I would walk away because I didn’t think I was good enough.

(8)
I didn’t expect Lily Summers to come find me.

She was in a curve-hugging dress and sky-high heels that clicked loudly on the wooden floor.

Seeing her like that, I frowned automatically. “I thought I told you Nathan doesn’t like that kind of outfit.”

Hearing that, she instantly looked hurt. “You said if I acted like Hazel, Nathan would like me.”

I set down the cup. “Isn’t that true?”

Isn’t it?

The designer bags, the appearances at the right occasions.

Lily stamped her foot in embarrassment.

Her coquettish, small-woman act made my head ache—and my new floor creak in sympathy.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it. If not, leave.”

Lily’s face flushed. Her voice grew tiny. “But… but he hasn’t touched me these past few days.”

“What?”

“I’m telling you—he hasn’t slept with me!”

I’d heard the first sentence and asked in surprise, but the second came like a yell.

People in the café all turned to look.

Lily, like someone with nothing left to lose, grabbed my hand and started crying. “I followed everything you told me to do. So why won’t he touch me?”

“But doesn’t he treat you well? Your social posts—”

“He gives me money and bags, but what good is that? I want him to love me. Who wouldn’t fall for a man like that?”

I didn’t answer because in this game she’d already lost.

Like all the women who’d latched on to Nathan for money and then greedily wanted everything—once they fell, they were done.

I may not understand men, but I understand that if you fall for someone, you’ll lose.

The reason I’d stayed by Nathan’s side for three years was because I had never fallen for him.

I told Lily, honestly, “If you want Nathan to change his mind, leave him now.”

I meant it as advice, but she clung to her imagined love and pushed my hand away angrily. “If you won’t help me, fine. I’m not like you—you made your score and then walked away. I truly love him!”

She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the wind chimes on the wall clattered.

I sighed, ignored the curious looks from customers, and bent to wipe up the splashed coffee.

As I wiped, a question stopped my hand cold—if Nathan had never touched Lily, then what was that faint red mark on his collar that day?

(9)
“You yelled at her?”

I looked at the incoming WeChat message and felt speechless.

One afternoon she came at me furious, and now another friend was immediately messaging to question me.

“No.”

But the other side didn’t seem to notice my denial. They not only replied instantly but sent a string of taunting messages:

"I never would have guessed, Claire Bennett. You’re such a jealous woman. How did I not see that before?"

"What? Jealous? Can’t stand seeing her living better than you?"

I saw the chat box flash "Other party is typing…" and couldn’t figure out how Nathan King, usually so quiet, suddenly seemed like a different person.

I paused, then stopped caring about the image I’d once tried to maintain in front of him. I typed "idiot," then blocked and deleted him.

How had I ever thought he was like Evan Moore?

A man who looked so refined but spoke so childishly—how could he be like Evan?

I tossed my phone aside, not wanting to think about Nathan on the other end.

(10)

On the other side, the time I’d arranged with Luke Harper arrived quickly.

When the bright red sports car pulled up under my building, it was like a Buddha statue—forcing people to step aside.

I buckled my seatbelt and complained, "When are you going to stop being so flashy?"

This time Luke wore only a white tee, sunglasses pushed up on his head, humming to himself and looking in a great mood.

"I don’t even know why you called me to be your plus-one. Doesn’t look like I have flocks of girls clinging to me," he drawled.

The last time we saw each other after seven years of silence, two minutes passed with nothing to say until Luke suddenly asked, "There’s a party in a week. Would you come with me?"

When old friends make awkward requests, it’s hard to refuse. So I forced myself to say yes.

That’s how we ended up here.

Luke shot me a look. "Claire, you still talk so much."

I rolled my eyes back at him. "Thanks, Luke. You’re still so charming."

It’s strange—around Evan I felt inferior; around Nathan I kept a polite distance; but with Luke I felt the most comfortable and honest.

He seemed, in my eyes, forever unchanged—the same idiot who used to howl in the infirmary in pain.

But I knew Luke wasn’t clueless. Like now, he didn’t mention certain names—pretending those stormy three years had never happened.

That was our unspoken understanding.

When the car stopped at the mall, Luke practically tugged me inside. "Hurry up, short legs, stop dragging."

"Are you begging for death?"

"Hey, this dress is cute—try it on."

He handed me a floor-length red gown with a deep V. I stared at the cut-out and then looked up at him, incredulous.

Luke noticed, scanned me up and down, then theatrically shook his head, "Nah, it won’t sit right."

I snapped.

I rapped the side of his head with my palm.

A line of sales assistants trailed behind us as Luke flung one expensive dress after another—each one at least four figures—back onto the racks without a backward glance.

"Could you stop treating haute couture like the produce aisle?"

He ignored me and, looking past me to the floor manager, said, "That’s all. Wrap it up."

I hurried, "Weren’t we just picking one gown? Why buy so much?"

Luke leaned in. His face filled the space in front of mine—handsome, with that infuriatingly cocky look that makes you want to punch him. "The gown’s going to a studio for tailoring. You think they’d just leave it on the sales rack? Peasant."

"And these—?"

"Everyday stuff for you," he said, pinching my tee with two fingers like it was beneath contempt. "This quality’s worse than our school uniforms."

I couldn’t help myself. I slapped him on the head.

"Claire Bennett! You ungrateful woman!"

"Rich asshole!"

After so many years I finally let those words fly again.

A sales assistant quietly asked, "Everything wrapped? Ship to your home or take now?"

"Ship it to my place," Luke said.

I squinted. "Frequent customer, huh, Luke? You bring a lot of girlfriends here?"

His face turned smugder; he crossed his arms. "This is my family’s mall. You didn’t know that?"

I almost choked on my own spit looking at him.

"Rich asshole!" I blurted at the same time he did.

We both burst out laughing.

"Knew you’d say that," he said.

"Alright, alright. You’re impressive."

No matter how many years passed, to me he stayed seventeen—like I would forever be seventeen in his eyes. That was our private pact.

We started the car, and suddenly Luke said, "I never brought anyone else."

"Huh?"

"I mean, I’ve never brought other girls shopping with me."

"Oh."

I looked up and met his unusually serious gaze. Memories from those years flooded back.

Luke used to be my strong arm fetching breakfast, and shy classmates who liked him would come to me.

"Claire, can you get him one for me too?"

In my naive way I nodded, and Luke got furious over it.

"It’s just breakfast. One or two, what’s the difference?" I said.

He pouted, "It’s different."

"How different?"

"Just is. You wouldn’t understand."

I got flustered. "Say it! Why do you look down on me? What do you mean ‘you wouldn’t understand’?"

He hemmed and hawed, then finally blurted, "No money."

I blinked—those were the first words about money I’d heard from him. But Luke wasn’t ashamed. He straightened up like it was a point of pride. "I don’t have money. If she wants one today and he wants one tomorrow, I end up buying breakfast for the whole class. I could starve."

It sounded weird, but somehow made sense. "Okay, I’ll help you refuse her," I offered. Then I reached for my backpack. "Here, here’s this week’s breakfast money."

Before I could hand it over, Luke lunged and blocked my hand. "Don’t. I can still afford to treat you. You don’t even eat much."

Though his logic was twisted, the compliment pleased me and stopped my hand. He added, quietly: "You could even eat a bit more."

Memory over.

I pulled my gaze away. The car felt suddenly quiet and unfamiliar. Only now did I realize all the things Luke had given me over the years were always uniquely mine.

(11)

"Don’t go unscrewing that—if you drop a diamond it’ll be a thousand bucks a stone."

I glared. "I’m nervous, okay?"

Luke crossed his legs, suit immaculate but mischief hard to hide. "Don’t be. It’s just a small party. Think of it as going to a fancy wedding in the city."

"Are you mocking my country bumpkin roots?"

"Aren’t you?"

"Shut up—"

The car stopped in front of the hotel. "We’re here," the driver said.

Luke helped me out, then looped my arm through his. "Hold on tight. Don’t let go."

"Got it."

Even though my relationship with Nathan had lasted three years, I never once agreed to go to an event with him. Maybe deep down I knew the relationship wouldn’t last, so I instinctively resisted attending things together—to avoid ties later.

I didn’t expect this city to be small enough I would run into Nathan here.

He stood with Olivia King, and the moment I walked in our eyes met as if magnetized.

"Everything okay?" Luke asked, leaning toward me.

I loosened my grip on his suit and shook my head.

He patted my hand. "Don’t be nervous. I’m here."

Hearing that steady reassurance, despite the heated look from Nathan, something calm settled in me. Yes, my story with Nathan was over. We could pretend we didn’t know each other.

But could I truly pretend nothing had happened?

The answer came the moment Nathan strode over and stopped right in front of me.

"May I help you, Mr. King?" Luke gripped my wrist and tried to hide me slightly behind him.

The city’s rich crowd was small—so they knew each other. Did Luke know about our three years…?

The question made my heart flutter for no reason.

I looked up and met Nathan’s face—angry—and an expression I couldn’t read in his eyes.

He ignored Luke and stared at me, like he wanted to say something. But Olivia, rushing over, grabbed his arm.

Maybe she was pale from hurrying. She said, "Sister-in-law… Claire, can I speak to you alone for a moment?"

Luke’s face flashed annoyance. "Are you guys crazy—"

"Okay." I answered.

I looked at Luke and forced a reassuring smile. "I’ll be back soon."

Many small choices can change a life. For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, in every choice I kept letting go of Luke’s hand.

(12)

In the hotel dressing room Olivia King had red-rimmed eyes.

"Where have you been, Claire? Nathan and I were so worried."

I frowned and corrected her. "Nathan and I are over. Don’t call me that."

"Did he do something wrong? I’ll scold him with you, okay?"

"I already told you that day—your brother lost it. Threw my phone and locked me upstairs. Believe me…"

I used to think innocence was a rare and admirable quality. But in that moment, I felt the kind of naive ignorance built up by innocence was unbearable.

I took a deep breath and for the first time spoke more sharply to Olivia. "Nathan and I are not the kind of relationship you think we are, okay?"

"Then what is it?"

The locker-room door suddenly flew open. Nathan King was leaning in the frame, and a wave of cigarette smoke from the hallway hit us.

He had voiced that question.

I nearly blurted the truth out. Nathan showing up now—surely he didn’t want his sister to find out either, right?

But he looked at me and, syllable by syllable, repeated, “What is that?”

Olivia saw the strange tension between us and, holding back tears, said in a muffled voice, “You two talk. I’ll go first.”

The moment the door shut, my silence broke. I spoke, a bite of sarcasm sneaking in even I hadn’t noticed: “Was it necessary to put someone through all this just for a discarded stand-in?”

Nathan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“So I’ll ask you—who is Hazel Bennett?”

The name landed between us like a line drawn in concrete.

“Why are you asking about her? —Wait. How do you even know her?”

I pointed at my face with one finger. “She looks a lot like me, doesn’t she?”

I thought I’d made myself clear, but confusion still clouded his face.

Then, in the next second, something clicked for Nathan.

A look of comprehension spread across his features, and for a moment—amusement?

“So that’s why you’d been looking for apartments a year ago.

So you shoved Lily Summers at me, trained her to imitate you, and planted her beside me?”

I froze. “You knew Lily was—my—”

Nathan smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him smile that night.

He reached out and tapped my forehead lightly. “Claire Bennett, you really aren’t very bright.”

The tension eased, as if we’d slipped back into the way things were when we were together. But this wasn’t the time for that.

Suppressing the panic rising in my chest, I stepped past Nathan toward the door, saying as I walked, “If you understand now, I’ll be going—”

Nathan acted like he hadn’t heard me. He grabbed my arm and shifted the topic. “What’s your relationship with Luke Harper?”

I snapped back without thinking, “None of your business.”

His eyes were deep and serious. “Whatever it is now, I want you to have nothing to do with him from now on.”

(13) “What did he tell you?”

On the drive back, Luke finally asked.

I stared out the window and shook my head. Nathan’s last words kept looping in my mind—
“Claire, I thought we were just fighting.”

Luke frowned, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Claire Bennett, why do you always hide things from me?”

I turned to him, my tone prickly. “What about you? Haven’t you always known about me and Nathan?”

The driver, sensing our argument, wisely put up the divider. After that, neither of us spoke.

Silence said it all. I felt a sad realization wash through me: Luke had known all along.

I don’t know how long had passed before the neon blur outside was replaced by tall buildings. It was my stop.

When I reached for the door, Luke let out a lopsided, helpless laugh. “So what am I supposed to do?

Claire—tell me. What should I do?”

I turned. Streetlight washed half his face inside the car window. For a moment—wrongly, perhaps—I thought how handsome he was.

He looked up at me. “Claire, will I never be the kind of person you like?”

“Never be like Evan Moore.”

Under the moonlight, I thought I saw his eyes redden.

Seven years had passed, and finally someone in front of me had spoken that name again.

(14)
“Nathan, slow down!”

Olivia stamped her little feet behind me and panted.

“Stay home. Don’t follow me!”

My name is Nathan King. The kid trailing me was my sister Olivia.

For years I’d wondered why our parents had to have her—clingy and always crying.

Today I’d finally skipped my one-on-one tutoring and slipped out for a walk, dodging the housekeeper. Of course Olivia had to stomp out after me.

She’s a teenager but still either whining or acting cute. Sometimes I want to take her to a doctor and test her IQ.

I waited impatiently until she wrapped her pudgy arms around my elbow.

“Bro, where are we?”

We stood by the roadside next to a fenced wall. Through the black rails, a vast athletic field was visible.

“It’s a school!”

Olivia’s eyes sparkled. From childhood, our family had hired private tutors—Olivia trained in the arts, while half my life was spent learning to run the family company.

We’d never had the ordinary school experience other kids knew.

I folded my arms and looked down at my sister who was a head shorter, tone annoyed. “Seen enough? Let’s go.”

Olivia ignored me again. “Look, bro! That girl looks like Miss Hazel.”

I followed her finger, but before I registered that, a familiar face caught my eye.

“Isn’t that Luke Harper?”

Luke’s background was similar to mine; our families did business together. But he’d been raised wild and free and wore the look of a troublemaker.

Now I saw him huddled on the ground, clutching his head, while a girl stood over him with one hand on her hip, clearly angry.

Her features were delicate—but right then she looked ready to eat someone alive.

…At a glance, she did resemble Hazel.

I asked Olivia, “Have you seen her before? Is she related to the Bennetts?”

Olivia squished her face between the two bars of the railing and talked a little garbled. “No way. If she was Hazel’s relative, we would’ve met.”

Hazel’s mom had been my mother’s best friend for years, so the families were close. Hazel and I had practically grown up together. Hazel had been in Olivia’s life a lot too—just as silly as Olivia.

Last year she went abroad to study and left Olivia a photo with red eyes. Olivia, afraid to lose it, passed it to me.

I kept that photo on my bedside table with a family portrait. No matter what, she counted as half my sister.

I was thinking how this troublemaker Luke finally had someone put him in his place—we’d have to tease him next time—when the crouched Luke suddenly sprang up.

His movement was big but light. He tapped the girl’s forehead and shouted, “Got you! Claire Bennett! You idiot!”

Then he ran.

She stood frozen for a few seconds, then chased after him, “Ah! Luke Harper, don’t let me catch you!”

Their figures faded into the distance. I drew my gaze back before Olivia looked at me.

“Bro, is this what school life is like? I’m so jealous. What about you?”

“Not jealous.”

“Really? Really? It looks fun.”

I said nothing.

The next time I saw Claire was years later outside a campus coffee shop at Waverly University. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, I watched her smile at every customer.

As if some trick of fate, I walked in.

I’d just finished a meeting—suit, watch, the whole look. I noticed the front-desk girl’s loud voice; she was excitedly guessing the price of my watch while addressing Claire.

But I couldn’t help wondering what Claire would say.

She gave a single, small “hmm,” then, “Is it? Kind of expensive, but I don’t know that brand.”

So indifferent.

And yet that casual expression overlapped with the memory of the girl chasing Luke, and I felt it—this was her.

Maybe fate: she brought me my coffee.

I glanced up. She was looking at me too.

Even though I already knew her name, and despite that scene replaying in my head a thousand times over the years, I asked the question.

“What’s your name?”

“Claire Bennett.”

There had always been so many girls around me. I only had to stand there, bearing the King name, and they’d swarm.

So I never pursued anyone. I didn’t know how to be good to a woman. I bought gifts and skipped events, lingering in that coffee shop all day.

When I got her contact later, I sent money—lots of it—so she could buy pretty clothes and be happy.

Other girls sniffed me out for my money or my family. But Claire’s look that day made me wonder—is she a little bit into me too?

Then one day she didn’t just stand there handing coffee. She sat down across from me.

She looked at me and asked, “Nathan, do you want to be with me?”

I was twenty-four and suddenly tongue-tied.

Was I surprised? Happy? Both.

My voice finally answered: “Yes.”

After we made it official, the first thing I did was cut off every other woman in my life.

Those who’d had something with me, those who wanted something, the ones who cried and made scenes—I left them all behind.

I held Claire like I was embracing twenty-something years of regret, as if making up for that seventeen-year-old summer when I’d envied others.

I went back to Luke to show off. Men understand men, right? Who can’t read someone’s feelings?

But he was unusually quiet.

He drowned himself in a case of liquor. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or sober.

“Nathan, you have to be good to her, okay? Only you can make her happy.”

“Why?”

He looked at me like he could see through me to someone else.

He didn’t answer my question. Instead he kept repeating, “Only you can make her happy…”

Of course I’d make her happy. Back then I told myself I’d give her everything I could.

We were together three years. Every time I waited for her to ask for something—anything—I wanted to give it.

But she never asked.

She was the perfect girlfriend: sensible, obedient, never questioned why I came home at three a.m., never pried into my past.

But she was too perfect—like a different person from the Claire I’d first met.

It didn’t matter. As long as she was by my side, I would keep being good to her. Over and over.

Until I saw the property deed the assistant sent me.

I don’t remember how I made it through those days.

I worked at the office and slept at the office, three straight days without stopping.

On the fourth day when I came home, Claire was calmly pruning the flowers in the garden. She didn’t even bother to question me when she saw me.

In that moment I don’t know what possessed me—I blurted out the name of a young celebrity who’d been pestering me lately.

“I was with her yesterday,” I said.

Claire paused with the shears in her hand. Then, the next second, she said, “Is that so? I see.”

From that moment I knew she didn’t love me anymore. Or rather—she never had.

In our third year together, Claire found a girl who looked like her—Lily Summers.

She taught that girl to mimic her, then sent her to get close to me.

I wanted to ask Claire—do you think I’m a cold-blooded animal?

Do you think a face can replace three years of feelings?

But outwardly, I smiled and accepted the girl.

I’d said I could give her everything I had.

Even if this time what she wanted was her freedom.

(15) I don’t know how I got home.

The door shut, I collapsed onto the bed, and when I came to it was late at night.

I thought some stories could be ignored if I simply didn’t think about them, as if pretending would make them disappear.

Until what Luke Harper said today pulled me back to that graduation summer.

We had already filled out our college applications and were invited back for the last student performance.

The auditorium lights went out. A single beam shone on the boy playing piano onstage. You could see dust drifting in the spotlight, as if the whole world was only him.

It was then Luke turned to me and said, “Let it go, Claire.”

“Evan Moore won’t be going to Waverly.”

I didn’t register what he was saying at first, I only turned my head automatically.

“What do you mean?”

“His mom’s already arranged for him to go to school in the States. He’s not going to Waverly with you.”

I laughed. “What are you talking about? Evan promised he’d meet me at Waverly.”

But Luke never looked at me. He kept staring at the boy on stage and didn’t say another word.

It wasn’t until I enrolled at Waverly and searched the whole campus without finding Evan that I realized Luke had been telling the truth.

That day I probably cried like a mess. I grabbed Luke’s sleeve and refused to let go. I kept asking why—Evan had promised me.

Luke squatted down to be eye-level with me and asked a string of questions I couldn’t answer.

He said, “Haven’t you ever wondered why Evan never talks about his family in front of us? Why he learns everything, why he never rebels?”

I froze.

Luke went on, “I can slack off from studying, skip class, fight, because I’ve got an older brother ten years ahead of me covering for me.”

“But Evan’s different. When he was six he and his brother went down by the river. Evan slipped and fell in. His brother went in to save him and drowned.”

“Claire, have you ever seen a body pulled out of the water after three days? Do you know what it’s like when your own brother dies trying to save you?”

“I’ve known Evan since we were kids. He used to climb trees and splash in rivers like the rest of us. After that… he changed. He took every lesson meant for the family heir without missing one.”

His Stand-In Loved Someone Else

“After school we could hit the internet café, stand in line for half an hour for skewers, but Evan couldn’t—because at home he already had private tutors lined up back-to-back.”

“All that hardship—he never complained about it in front of us, never told you.”

By the time Luke reached that part I was a crying mess. He saw me and sighed, his voice softening.

“Claire, Evan isn’t living for himself. He carries his brother’s life on his shoulders, and his mother is still abroad getting therapy after the trauma.”

“All of that means he can’t live by his own wishes. He can’t go to Waverly with you.”

I sobbed, my heart aching for that boy carrying too much. “But… but—”

“No buts, Claire,” Luke cut in.

He put his hand on my head like he was comforting me. “That’s his fate.”

Is it fate?

Like the bond Evan and I were fated to cut—was that fate too?

Or was it all, in the end, my own carelessness?

The Evan who’d run to the dorm to finish my homework when Luke and I skipped class to the internet café and didn’t do any of it.

The Evan who dragged me to the nurse’s office when I accidentally stabbed myself with a fruit knife and solemnly lectured me on the dangers of tetanus.

The Evan who never got angry or resentful.

I’d never asked why he was so much more sensible than other people.

Never wondered why he was always the one taking care of others when he was at an age to laugh and cry without restraint.

(16) After that day Evan’s name disappeared from our mouths.

Our three-year friendship—mine and Luke’s—ended too.

It happened when I went out alone one night to drink myself stupid. Luke appeared out of nowhere and snatched the bottle from my hand.

“Do you have to throw yourself away like this?”

I remember I laughed—bitterly, sarcastically. “What would you know? Have you ever loved someone? Do you know how I feel?”

That was probably the first time I saw Luke get angry. “Claire, don’t you understand?”

Maybe the wind was too cold that night, or maybe his words woke me up. I looked up into his eyes—sadness and anger tangled together like a pool.

Don’t I understand? I did. Those unique kindnesses, that exclusive softness— I wasn’t blind to them. I just didn’t dare understand.

So I only said, “Luke, I’m sorry.”

After that night we tacitly stopped contacting each other.

I could stay with the unfeeling Nathan King for three years, but I couldn’t give Luke what he wanted.

Maybe I was afraid that being together would mean losing him, and that fear pushed us apart.

Seven years later Luke reappeared, like a wisp of smoke from the past. But his reddened eyes and trembling voice told me he’d never let go—just like me.

(17) I thought Luke and I’s story would stop again like it had seven years ago.

But the next morning my phone rang. Half-asleep, I answered, and an elderly voice came through.

“Hello— is this Claire?”

The early-morning haze made me slow to respond. The woman spoke and then seemed to ask someone beside her, “Is this really Claire?”

Luke’s voice came on the line after—there was a hint of helplessness. “Grandma, yes it’s her.”

Hearing that name made my chest ache.

“Grandma, how have you been?”

She chuckled. “I’m fine, just fine. You haven’t come to visit in so long—my pastries have nobody to eat them.”

I answered on instinct, “I’ll come visit in the next few days.”

“No, don’t wait—come today. I’ll have Tiger pick you up.”

Luke jumped in, “I don’t—ugh!”

A loud knock to his head cut off his protest.

The old woman’s voice changed from gentle to firm. “Either you go fetch Claire, or I’ll make your grandpa’s men take you out to the fields for training.”

“Grandma—”

Tiger acted sweet.

Another thump to his head.

I held back my laugh until the old woman said, “Tiger’s going to pick you up. I’ll hang up now. Your grandpa and I have dinner ready and we’ll be waiting for you.”

I said yes and got up to pull on a light dress and get ready.

Grandma is Luke’s real grandmother. As a kid, whenever he skipped class or feared getting scolded by his parents, he’d slip over the wall and hide at her place.

Later he’d help me climb over that same wall and sneak me out to play, always shepherding me to his grandmother’s house.

She was open-minded and never scolded Luke for his mischief. She’d say, “If a kid wants to play, let him. Is it better that he bury his head in books like his father and grow up too busy to visit an old woman like me?”

Her words made even Luke’s father embarrassed. From then on, they turned a blind eye.

She was always kind to me. She said she’d had a son and then two grandsons—no girl to gossip with. She loved making food: plum wine, cookies, always saving a taste for me.

When I broke off contact with Luke, I lost touch with her too. I hadn’t imagined she’d remember me after all these years.

(18) Luke had swapped his flashy sports car for a black Jeep.

Yesterday’s awkwardness lingered between us and neither of us spoke.

I reached for the rear door and found it stuck. Frustrated, I put my hands on my hips. “Luke, are you being childish?”

He got defensive too. “Are you dumb? Didn’t you try the front door?”

I saw he was wearing sunglasses and teased, “What’s the matter, did you cry yourself swollen yesterday?”

Luke drew a breath. “To block the sun, you know?”

He glanced at me. “Not like some women who don’t even know how to dress—rougher than men.”

What embarrassment, what fluttering romance — none of that mattered. All I could think about was verbally crushing this spoiled rich idiot.

“Heh, at least my childhood nickname isn’t Tiger-Tiger.”

“Claire Bennett!”

Luke’s face flushed instantly.

This was a wound he’d never willingly mention in front of others.

I remembered the first time his grandmother called me that nickname in front of him. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hold back a laugh.

Luke put on a sour face and protested, “Grandma, could you not call her that in public?”

The old lady patted my hand and chuckled, “Oh, what’s wrong with it? Who doesn’t have a childhood name? Right, Claire?”

I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, and I kept replying, “Yes, it’s so cute — Tiger-Tiger.”

(19) The car had barely stopped when we saw Grandma already waiting by the driveway.

“I told you I’d come get her. You should just sit inside—” Luke leaned against the car door, sounding helpless.

Grandma ignored him and walked straight up to me, took my hand, smiling.

“You’ve grown into such a young lady.”

My nose pricked. Seven years had passed; a few silver hairs had appeared on her head, but she was still spry and sharp.

“Grandma…”

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. My little granddaughter’s face is so pretty — don’t ruin it.” She took my hand and led me inside. “Grandpa’s cooking. He heard you were coming and insisted on making something himself. Don’t be fooled by his grumpy face — he adores you.”

In the yard a grape arbor curled around the swing Luke and I used to play on years ago.

“You can’t swing that anymore — it’s falling apart,” she warned.

Inside, the big round table was set. Plates were flipped over on top of serving dishes to keep in the heat.

“Claire’s here!” Grandma called toward the kitchen.

An old, rasping voice answered, “Coming—”

Grandpa pulled back the kitchen curtain carrying a dish. He set it on the table and motioned for me, “Come, sit, eat.”

Luke stood by and lifted the lids off the dishes. “You made braised pork today? That’s quite the spread.”

Grandma swatted his hand away and scolded, “Go wash up!”

By the time we washed, all the lids were off and plates piled high. Grandma kept using the serving chopsticks to heap food onto my plate.

“Here, Claire, your favorite braised pork.”

“And this big crab — your uncle brought it back special from somewhere. Oh, Tiger-Tiger, help her crack it.”

“How is it?”

Grandma looked at me expectantly.

My bowl was piled so high I ate with my head down just to keep up with the two elders pushing food my way. Chewing the pork, I could only answer with muffled “mm-hm”s and nod.

Luke cracked the crab at the table and muttered, “I don’t even know whose grandparents these are.”

Grandma gave him that exasperated, ‘I can’t believe you’ look and told him to eat.

After the meal I offered to wash the dishes, but Grandma stopped my hands, “You’ve got to protect those young hands. Let Tiger-Tiger do it.”

“Grandma baked some buttery cookies for you. Come with me.” She led me into the sitting room and opened a metal tin filled with neatly arranged biscuits and pastries.

“This is the peach pastry, this is the snowflake biscuit…” She handed me a piece. “Try it. Grandma’s skills haven’t gone rusty, right?”

I popped a pastry into my mouth and heard Grandma switch to another topic with a little smile. “Claire, are you seeing anyone?”

I blinked, “No.”

She sighed to herself, “That Luke — hopeless.”

I choked on my cookie, my face burning; I couldn’t help coughing.

Grandma rubbed my back and sighed, “Claire, Tiger-Tiger really is a good kid.”

I steadied my breath. “I know.”

“He’s a bit playful by nature, but he doesn’t bully girls. Grandma can see he genuinely likes you. If you two were together, he’d treat you right.”

“Besides, your uncle left him a few company projects these years and he handled them well. He even started some racing club. Grandma’s old and doesn’t understand you young people, but your uncle says the business is doing okay.”

“Claire…” Hearing that, I didn’t know what to say when a knock sounded at the door and Luke shouted, “Grandma—open up, I want a cookie too!”

Our conversation was cut off; Grandma nearly flipped the tin in fury. “You brat!”

…We lugged bags into the car and said goodbye to Grandpa and Grandma at the gate. “You two go inside. Luke and I are heading off — we’ll visit again soon.”

“Don’t be strangers,” Grandma called.

The engine started, and only when their figures shrank in the rearview mirror did Luke speak. “Did my grandmother tell you any of her nonsense again?”

I was surprised. “How did you know?”

I shrugged off my own surprise. “Well…I guess she did say some things…”

“Forget it, you know her. When she’s at that door with the lock, I just know she’s got some secret advice for you.” He smiled.

I laughed. “So that’s why you put on that whole show.”

“Yeah.” Luke looked suddenly wounded and rubbed his head. “And I got smacked for it.”

“Luke.” I said suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“I think…” He didn’t catch it at first; he kept his hands on the wheel and leaned slightly toward the passenger seat. “What?”

“I think—you’re really good.”

(20) Luke and I tacitly agreed not to bring up that night again.

Still, he’d show up at the café wearing tees and shorts to drag me out for meals, making the part-time college girls at work blush and sneak glances at him.

It didn’t hurt that his visits brought more customers to my modest café.

Meanwhile, Olivia King somehow got my WeChat and messaged me every few days, never mentioning Nathan King.

She said, “No matter what, I think being friends with you would be great.”

Luke seemed to know Olivia too and didn’t dislike her. He just often urged me to get out more.

Once he teased, “Olivia’s not like the girls from our high school. She’s even clumsier than you — at least she can’t fool you.”

I shot him a look and asked, “How are you always so free? Grandma said you opened a club. When can you take me to see it?”

Luke hurriedly refused, “No way. It’s full of handsome guys in racing suits. What if one catches your eye?”

“You think too much.”

“You don’t know how special you are.”

My face heated. I grabbed a cushion and tossed it at him. “Shut up.”

A few days later Olivia came by, all dolled up, insisting I come with her to the mall.

She said she wanted me to help pick things — then shoved dresses into my arms in the fitting room. “This suits you, this looks great — try them on, sis.”

When I stepped out, Olivia had already paid, bags in hand and a bodyguard holding them.

For days she bought clothes and bags for me. Whenever I offered to pay her back, she gave a little smug smile and said, “Please, who am I? The only heiress in the King family. I could buy the whole mall for my sister.”

I was about to tell her money isn’t meant to be spent like that when she added, “Besides, this money’s from my brother…”

She froze and turned to look at me like a stuck record.

I froze, too.

“Nathan?” I said aloud.

Olivia panicked, “Sis, listen — my brother was worried you wouldn’t accept his money, so— but I really like you! I wasn’t lying!”

She treated it like a huge thing, like I’d throw a fit and cut her off. Her voice climbed, tears welling. Passersby were staring; I pulled her into a quiet corner.

“I’m not mad. Please don’t cry, okay?”

Olivia started sniffling. “Really?”

My tone softened despite myself. “Really.”

She looked wary and kept glancing at me, then said, “Please don’t stop talking to me because of this.”

“I won’t.” I promised.

Relief flooded her face. Then she fidgeted and asked, “Am I…not very smart?”

“Huh?”

“They always say I’m not smart. I didn’t go to school much as a kid and had no friends. The girls from the other wealthy families were busy studying, so I’d sneak out and play with kids on the street.”

“But they didn’t like including me, so I bought them snacks and often paid when they called me. I was happy, but my brother said I was silly.”

“He said people who just like spending my money aren’t real friends. True friends are people who’ll talk to me a lot, won’t mind that I’m slow to learn.”

“So I really like you, Claire. I liked you when I was with my brother and I like you when I’m not. You’re the first person outside my family who talked to me a lot and patiently taught me how to make desserts.”

Her sudden confession left me at a loss, especially hearing it from another girl. I reached out and patted her head. “Whether I keep in touch with Nathan or not, you can always come to me. You’ll always be my little sister.”

(21) That evening Olivia insisted on driving me back to her villa after dinner.

“My brother’s on a business trip to Shanghai. You won’t run into him, don’t worry.”

“I was worried he’d be bored, so I adopted a little puppy at his house. It’s so cute. I want you to meet it!”

I couldn’t stand the little girl clinging to my arm and acting cute anymore. Since Nathan wasn’t here, I nodded and agreed.

“Then you can’t tell him I came, okay?”

“Okay!”

The driver parked at the gate, and Olivia dragged me toward the backyard.

A little yellow dog was curled up on the lawn, asleep. At the sound, its ears twitched, then it sprang up and ran over to us.

“His name’s Sunny. Somebody dumped him on the roadside. I felt sorry for him, but I was afraid of getting in trouble at home, so I brought him here.”

So it wasn’t that she was worried Nathan would be lonely—she was worried about getting scolded by her parents.

“I bought him lots of clothes and left them in my brother’s room. Can you help me get them, sis?”

Her words stopped me. I ignored the oddness of putting dog clothes in with her brother’s things and instead thought about Nathan’s guarded look when I’d barged into his room before.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

Olivia let out a small “Oh,” then stood up—only to have Sunny clamp onto the hem of her skirt, refusing to let her go.

For a long moment it was just the two of them, stubborn as can be. I rubbed my temple. “Fine, I’ll go.”

The villa’s interior hadn’t changed; it looked the same as when I’d left it.

Upstairs, Nathan’s door wasn’t locked.

I put my hand on the knob and took a deep breath, telling myself, This is Olivia’s idea. Don’t blame yourself.

I hadn’t been in this room much over the past three years—usually only when Nathan came home drunk and I helped him to bed.

The decor was simple, black-and-white tones. Apart from the basics, there wasn’t anything extra, so I couldn’t imagine what else he might be hiding besides the photo on the bedside table.

I glanced at the nightstand—of course Hazel’s photo was still there, placed with the family portrait.

Olivia had only said the clothes were in his room, not where exactly. I figured they wouldn’t be mixed into his own wardrobe.

I opened the drawer beneath the TV—nothing. The cabinet by the desk—nothing.

Finally I opened the bedside drawer and found several sets of dog clothes at the bottom.

I picked them up and froze when I saw something familiar.

“Claire, why have you been in there so long—”

The door flew open. I looked up in shock and met Olivia’s equally startled gaze.

She looked at the stack of photos I was holding, and because I had already flipped through them, I knew exactly what was on them—me in high school, crossing the finish line first in the long-distance race, me goofing around on the track with Luke, the graduation photo where I made a silly peace sign… How could Nathan have those?

Silence stretched between us in the room. But from Olivia’s expression I could tell she knew too.

I lifted the photos. “Aren’t you going to explain?”

She seemed panicked. “Can’t we wait until my brother gets back? I’ll tell you then.”

“Fine.” I said, “But since those are my pictures, I’m taking them.”

“No!” she shouted. Then she mumbled, “My brother really told me not to say anything.”

I didn’t answer; I just stared down at her.

Under my gaze, Olivia finally broke and spoke.

From what she said, a story unfolded that completely contradicted everything I’d believed for the last three years.

“…What about her?” I asked, pointing at Hazel’s frame on the nightstand.

Olivia blinked. “Hazel’s from a family our families have known forever. We all grew up together. When we were little my brother said she was as clumsy as me and kind of looked down on us.”

So why was she on the bedside table?

The question spun in my head, and then another family photo snapped something into place—sudden understanding.

So… just a sister? Just a friend?

No wonder when Nathan listened to me accuse him about Hazel that day, he wasn’t angry—just confused.

So Nathan liked me?

The thought hit like a physical thing; I could feel my voice tremble.

“I’ll leave these here and go,” I said.

Before Olivia could react, I shoved the photos into her hands and hurried out.

I ran out of the villa in one breath.

Outside the gate, my muddled thoughts suddenly cleared. Scenes from the past three years replayed, sharp and unforgiving.

Nathan who always cleared his schedule to spend my birthday with me, no matter how busy work was. Nathan who brought me gifts from every trip. Nathan who sometimes sulked but melted as soon as I coaxed him. Even the Nathan who’d once asked my name with cautious, hesitant politeness.

I had thought all that warmth belonged to someone else—so I let it go. But had it always been meant for me?

When you believe you haven’t been loved, you don’t feel pain. It’s only when you discover you were being loved all along that everything cracks.

Walking the street, guilt hollowed me out the way my parents’ divorce had the day it happened.

I started asking myself: had I been wrong all these years?

At a private hospital, sunlight poured through huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

Luke sat on the sofa, looking at the man standing by the window with his back to him.

“Did you tell her?” Luke asked.

The man turned slowly, revealing a clean, handsome face.

“I haven’t figured out how to say it,” he replied.

Luke rubbed his wrist, face unreadable. “She’ll be happy.”

“Will she?” the man murmured. “Or will she blame me?”

That year he’d promised Claire he’d go to Waverly University—he hadn’t lied. He truly believed it when he stood on that stage.

Then he came home to find his mother collapsed on the floor. She’d returned to the country to support him through the college exams. No one expected her condition to relapse—his father didn’t even come home.

They called doctors and sat outside the emergency room all night. He couldn’t even remember how he survived it alone.

When dawn crept in, the ER finally turned off the lights and his mother was pulled back from the brink.

But the doctors’ faces didn’t relax. She’d attempted an overdose; her mental state was fragile. Saving her this time had been luck; next time maybe not. The best plan, they said, was to change her environment completely—remove every trigger that reminded her of the bad things.

It was the same advice another doctor had given years earlier.

He remembered his father urging him to study finance abroad, and though he’d rejected that plan as a grown-up, now, to keep his mother safe, he had no choice but to accept it.

His mother had already lost one son. She couldn’t be left in a strange place alone.

When he was little it had been about school and fear of not fitting in. Now he knew he had to grow up.

Luke thought: this was a debt he’d spend his life repaying.

As for Claire—he erased every way the girl could find him. He cut off all his contact information and any path to reach him.

He told himself she’d be fine without him—she was bright, she was cheerful. He knew the truth though: it wasn’t because he feared she would find him. It was because he knew if he ever looked into her eyes again, he would never be able to leave.

And he had to leave.

This was his debt. This was his fate.

“Hey, Luke, what are you going to do later?” it was the last summer before college; hot and urgent like youth itself.

Claire lay with her face on her desk, trying to cool off.

Luke, who’d wandered over, answered quickly: “He’ll go home to inherit the family business, of course.”

Claire swatted his hand away when he tried to snag her chips. “No—depends on what he likes.”

“What about me?” Evan pointed at himself, as if the question had never occurred to him.

He’d always felt his path was preordained: perfect grades, a chosen major, then taking over the family business—an easy, comfortable life.

Claire’s earlier words echoed in his head. What did he really like?

He surprised everyone by answering, “Doctor.”

Claire’s curiosity popped up. “Huh?”

“I want to be a doctor,” he said. The idea once it appeared wouldn’t be contained. “I want to heal people, to save a lot of people, to save…families.”

Claire didn’t notice Luke’s sudden silence; she just clapped. “Great! Doctor’s perfect. When you make it, I’ll come see you for treatment.”

Evan laughed. “People don’t say things like that.”

Maybe that moment planted a seed. He chose medicine over his father’s wishes, even if it meant going against him. No matter how many people opposed him, he knew one person would always support his choice—and that person’s existence made him fearless.

A lot of coming-of-age novels put their protagonists at sixteen or seventeen and make everything feel beautiful. I don’t know how to describe my sixteen and seventeen.

My parents divorced when I was little. In ninth grade my mother remarried a wealthy landowner and, with a wave of his hand, sent me to the elite high school Waverly High.

I thought it was my mother’s way of making amends for years of guilt—help I didn’t ask for.

At that age people tend to split into extremes: either you love everyone, or you hate everyone.

Back then, I was in the latter camp.

I pushed everyone away, chased off anyone who sat near me. I got into trouble, I stirred things up, I skipped studying. I thought my life would stay that way forever—until Evan Moore showed up.

I'd never seen anyone so clean.

Clean like a life that had never known pain.

I wasn't afraid of having no friends, but I began to fear Evan thinking I had no friends.

So when everyone paired up at noon to go eat, I'd pretend to nap with my head on the table until I woke to find a box of pastries set in front of me.

The boy's voice was cool and casual. "Saw you didn't eat lunch, so I grabbed you something."

He paused with the pen twirling in his hand, then turned to ask, "Do girls… all want to lose weight?"

I couldn't hear anything else. I only nodded dumbly.

He frowned at that. "Pretty matters, sure, but you still have to eat."

I said okay.

From then on the cafeteria had more of Evan and me in it—plus Luke Harper, who hung around us every day draping an arm over my shoulders and shouting, "The three of us are tight, man."

So when Evan left without a word to fly across the ocean, the thing I regretted most was never getting to say thank you properly.

Thank you, Evan. Thank you for showing up in my worst, most terrible sixteen-year-old year and making me finally become someone kind like you.

At that moment I was still wandering the streets in a daze. It was almost the exact second I opened my apartment door and collapsed on the sofa that my phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar, but my gut told me it was Nathan King.

Sure enough, that voice I knew so well was back in my ear.

He cut straight to the point: "I'm coming back tomorrow. Let's meet."

I froze for a beat, then said, "Okay."

I felt like I didn't know how to face him anymore.

The next day at noon, the part-timers all went out to eat. I stayed behind to clean the shop.

The wooden sliding door creaked. A breeze tinkled the wind chime on the wall. The click of dress shoes on the floor was sharp and clear.

I looked up, stunned.

Nathan wore a suit, like he'd dashed over straight from a meeting, his face clouded with fatigue and something he couldn't hide.

"Sit… why are you looking for me?"

He didn't answer my question. He scanned the shop and said, "It's different now."

I couldn't tell if he meant the store or me.

I kept sweeping in silence.

"Can't you sit with me for a bit?"

My hands paused. It was the first time Nathan had ever sounded almost vulnerable with me.

Thinking about those photos, I sighed and set down the broom. "I'll make you a coffee."

When I sat, Nathan stayed quiet. He stared at me until I almost couldn't bear the intensity, then he finally spoke. "At first I thought you were tired of me."

His opening caught me off-guard and my fingers dug around the rim of the cup.

"My assistant showed me that property title a while ago. I knew you wanted to leave me, and you looked like you weren't even trying to hide it."

"So I let you go. To help with your act I took Lily Summers on and gave you enough money to live."

"Maybe later my tone got harsher, but I have pride too—this was also the first time I'd ever… been dumped."

For the first time I saw something almost pitiable flicker across Nathan's face.

"The day Lily came to you and then sobbed to me afterward, I was so happy. I thought you were finally jealous, that you'd finally put your foot down with her."

"But you didn't."

"At that gala you mentioned Hazel Bennett. I thought you were mistaken—that you imagined I loved her, and that's why you left me. So I started to relax. I thought once I explained everything you'd come back."

"You never came find me. You seemed fine on your own."

"And Olivia said when you saw those photos, you only looked panicked, like you'd forced yourself to be calm."

My grip tightened so hard the pattern on the cup pressed into my skin.

"Nathan…"

"I started to wonder what I did wrong. I wanted to ask you, Claire—did you ever love me?"

Clink.

My spoon hit the floor.

When I bent to pick it up, Nathan had already stood.

"Are you leaving?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've got a meeting this afternoon. Claire, I won't force you, but I hope one day you give me an answer, okay?"

I watched him go, then sat staring at the spoon.

Of course, where I couldn't see, Nathan had opened his phone to a chat and blown up a photo of Luke and Evan captured outside a building.

He zoomed in on the man who was a six-point mirror of him, raised a brow, smiled faintly toward the café, and said again, "Claire, you're not very smart."

I'd forgotten Nathan wasn't just the gentle man who'd been kind to me for three years, or the one who could suddenly sound weak. He was Nathan King—the man who at twenty-something carried the whole King family on his shoulders.

Just because his schemes and ruthlessness never landed on me didn't mean they didn't exist.

"…But if it gets you back to me, I'll do anything."

After the door shut, I turned the spoon over in my fingers.

That day in the locker room Nathan had seemed to already know about my misunderstanding of him and Hazel. The photos were found, Olivia's explanation, the misunderstanding cleared.

If it were truly Nathan's nature, he'd have waited for me to come to him filled with remorse—not asked to meet the next day.

What had been a storm in my head was, to him, nothing more than exposed feelings and intentions.

So when he came, he should've been his usual awkward, childish self. Not the weak, pleading version he'd just been.

Was he afraid? Afraid of what? Or did he know something?

After some indeterminate time, I dialed Luke Harper.

It rang unusually long before he picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Nathan just came to see me."

"Uh—did he say anything?"

I frowned. His tone felt off. "He talked about Evan. Do they know each other?"

There was a rustling on the line. I almost blamed the signal, then Luke said, "No way. They don't know each other."

"I lied," I said.

No pause. I went on, "But Evan's back, right?"

Silence.

I breathed and asked, "Is he near you?"

Silence, endless silence—until another voice I knew like oxygen came through, and I almost cried.

"It's me. Evan."

Too long. Seven years was just too long.

Seven years in which our world filled with people coming and going, seasons shifting, graduation uniforms yellowing, thick stacks of exams crumbling thin—the years so long they changed everything, and so short they barely let me forget a voice.

My head that rationally parsed Nathan and Luke's odd behavior went blank.

I hung up.

I propped my elbows on the table, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed like I couldn't breathe.

I had thought I'd arrive shining at this reunion. I had smoothed away youthful bravado; he'd become better in his way.

But whenever it came to Evan, I was always a mess—without the courage even to say hello.

My instincts about things related to him were still uncannily exact, like that morning after assembly when a thousand-student field thinned and I could pick him out in an instant.

I wanted to see him and was terrified to. I feared he'd refuse to see me.

I wanted to ask how he'd been all these years.

Are you okay?

I hoped you were.

"Claire!"

"Claire, open up!"

Luke's voice was outside.

"Claire—"

I turned the knob and opened the door.

Luke's cheeks were still flushed from running. One hand hung midair, eyes wide.

"You… you cried?"

I said nothing. I sat back down on the floor and leaned my head against the sofa.

He kicked the crushed soda can aside, came over, and snatched the cigarette from between my fingers.

"You crazy?"

My head felt woozy. I squinted up at him.

"Why did you all hide this from me?"

"Why am I always the last to know?"

Luke's face blurred, like the boy from that summer overlaid with this one.

Evan had lessons in piano and had won a bunch of awards, so the school had set aside a practice room for him.

I liked to lean against the doorframe and watch him. Trees rimmed the window, sunlight hit his hair just so—like a scene from a drama.

One noon I woke from a nap and neither Evan nor Luke were in the classroom. Curious, I wandered to the practice room and found Luke sitting on the bench outside, head down.

When he heard me he looked up, startled. "What are you doing here?"

I twisted the knob to go in. "I was looking for you guys. Evan's in there—"

"No—"

Two voices overlapped but it was too late.

A sharp smell hit me. Evan inside spun around, shocked.

He was still that gorgeous boy—sunny and luminous—if not for the cigarette in his hand.

Luke threw one arm around my shoulder, covered my eyes, and pulled me out.

I followed obediently. As the door clicked shut, he let go. "Did you see?"

I nodded.

My eyes were down. I wasn't sure what to feel—mostly just helpless. "Why?"

Luke sighed. "He's just so tired."

I protested, "But it's not good—if I—"

"I'll break your legs," he snapped, glaring.

I stared at my shoes, which had bits of dried grass stuck from running over here.

Luke repeated, "He's just—so tired."

Later, thinking back, I realized Evan must have been as bewildered by what he carried on his shoulders as we were by him.

Because of him, my brother died and my mother fell ill. The ache in his heart was no less than anyone else's, but with family far away and his nature forbidding him from complaining, he had no choice but to carry it alone.

So he chose the only way he could.

At that time, I knew nothing.

All I felt was this chaotic mess inside. I told myself Evan was Evan — I wouldn’t stop liking him just because of one bad habit.

So why was I so unhappy?

Maybe because Luke knew how exhausted he really was, and I didn’t. I even thought Evan looked happy every day.

And I hated finding out things too late.

Then the sound of the hand crank turning came, and Evan stepped out.

There was no smell of smoke on him anymore, only that faint, soap-like scent he always seemed to have.

He reached out and ran his hand through my hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I shook my head hard but couldn’t come up with anything to say.

He watched me for a moment, then turned toward the academic building. I called out before he could get far.

“Evan!”

“Mm?”

He turned back.

“If you ever feel down, you can tell me… Luke can too. Just please don’t do things that’ll hurt your body.”

I thought I saw that faint smile on his face freeze. After a long beat he said, “Okay.”

I trusted Evan more than I trusted myself.

If he said okay, I believed him. If he said he wouldn’t hide things from me, I believed him.

So I always felt like I knew him best — until that night Luke told me about his family, until the whole world knew Evan had returned to the country and I was still left guessing.

I kept looking at the man in front of me.

Until the silhouette of Luke in his school uniform was swallowed up by the figure before me.

I reached out to grab him and found I couldn’t grab anything.

I laughed and asked, “Did you come here to break my leg?”

After I said it, I blacked out.

Maybe it was my imagination, but in the last instant before I closed my eyes, I thought I saw Luke’s eyes reddening too.

When I woke up again, Luke was gone. The crushed cans were cleared away and thrown out; the room was tidy as before.

I lay back on the sofa and sat up, holding my head.

Luke had cleaned up my mess and taken the packs of cigarettes on the coffee table, but he left a note.

Only a few crude words: “Keep your legs. Don’t do it again.”

For some reason, seeing those lopsided characters lifted my mood.

That good feeling lasted until the door opened.

I stared in alarm until I met Luke’s eyes across the doorway, a bag of soup dumplings in his hand.

He was calm. “You’re awake?”

“You didn’t leave?”

He glanced at me. “If I left, and you choked on that booze you forced down and died in the middle of the night, what would I do?”

I had no answer.

He set the dumplings on the coffee table and shook the keys in his hand. “You probably have a spare key. I’ll take this set for now.”

I glared. “How can you be so shameless?”

Luke tilted one corner of his mouth into a smile. “Claire Bennett, I held back until now. Barely restrained, you should be grateful.”

I knew what he meant, so I grabbed the dumplings and shoved one in my mouth.

He knew I knew, so he kept talking.

“I thought if I stayed by your side, that would be enough. You like Evan, you missed your chance with him, so you chose someone who looked like him.

“And compared to Evan, I’m the opposite — you wouldn’t like me, so I never fought for anything.”

“But I realized… neither of them could really give you happiness.

“Whenever you mentioned Evan, you cried. So maybe… maybe it’s time I tried?”

I choked and started coughing hard.

Luke grabbed the water from the table, opened it, and handed it to me, watching the whole time.

I could almost see that vast, metaphorical tail wagging behind him — the image of Luke I’d had since high school: reckless, impulsive, all bright energy.

He said what he felt because he felt it.

I took the water. “Is this you confessing?”

Luke stared at me, half-exasperated. “Didn’t I start confessing the day I met you?”

I snorted and sprayed the water out in a ridiculous burst.

My face burned. “Can you… can you stop?”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop teasing.”

He waved it off, then came around and patted my back to help me breathe easier.

As he patted he asked, “You make desserts, right?”

“Huh?”

“One of the shop’s part-timers told me the desserts on the menu are because of you. You never made any for me.”

I gaped. “Luke, are you a seventeen-year-old girl who eats dessert?”

“I took care of you all night. Look at these dark circles! Look!”

He pointed at the hollow under his eyes and leaned in another inch, until I had to swipe his face away.

“When did you ever take care of me and then start making requests?” I teased, half-mean, half-smiling.

“Everything you owe me, Claire, you have to pay back. All the affection you’ve owed me these years — I’m keeping track.”

“And what if I can’t pay?”

Luke paused, surprised I said it, and the bravado deflated. “If you can’t pay, pay a little less. But you still have to pay.”

“Claire, I’m kind of stingy, you know.”

I don’t know whether calling him “clingy” would sound wrong.

Anyway, Luke followed me to the coffee shop like my shadow, as if he feared I might run.

He peered around the door. “Why’s no one here?”

I rolled my eyes. “We open at nine. It’s only seven.”

Behind the service counter the glass let anyone standing outside see right in. I tied on the apron hanging on the wall and started prepping.

Luke propped his chin on his hands with his elbows on the counter and watched through the glass.

His attention distracted me. I knocked on the glass. “If you’re bored, crack two eggs.”

“Okay!”

He trotted over, but when he held the chopsticks, I could tell by the rhythm something was off.

“You don’t know how to beat an egg?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I stared. How could someone be so confident about not knowing and still grin like that?

“Like this.” I guided his hands into the right tilt.

It was then I noticed how big Luke’s hands were — like comparing a water bottle to a little yogurt drink.

“Okay, got it? Stir like this — what’re you looking at?”

I looked up and unexpectedly caught him staring, a little dazed.

“Nothing,” he said, jerking his hand back and stepping away. “I’ll whisk out here and bring it back.”

I watched the flushed line at the back of his neck and, absurdly, thought: he’s shy.

I looked at my own water-speckled hands and then at his slightly flustered retreating figure. So Luke was a pure, awkward boy at heart?

I couldn’t help laughing.

Luke’s exasperated voice came from the other room. “What are you laughing at?”

“Your egg skills suck.”

He hesitated, probably unsure if my teasing was about his technique or the reddened neck, and he hurried off to the register a safe distance away.

When he came back, proudly presenting a bowl of beaten eggs, the rest of the prep was nearly finished.

“How’s it?”

I peeked and deadpanned, “The chicken would feel robbed of its life.”

He pouted and I took the bowl. “I’ll do it. Sit down.”

“Don’t you need my help?”

“Please, just be quiet for once.”

Luke slumped in a chair and watched, and maybe because he was farther away his presence didn’t crowd me — I could focus.

When I slid a stack of crepes and some baked puddings across the table, his eyes lit up like a kid on candy.

He looked like a smug little kid who’d found sugar.

I sat down, half amused, half exasperated. “How’s this different from any other dessert shop?”

“Completely different,” he said earnestly, then surprised himself with a bright smile. “It’s free!”

Again I hit him with a sassy comeback.

I rested my chin on my hand. “You heard it from one of our part-timers, right?”

Luke choked a bit and swallowed slowly. “Yeah… Olivia said once that you often give… um…”

His mouth seemed to block the name.

I filled in, “Nathan King.”

He paused. “Right.”

I laughed. “That’s even worth comparing?”

The delighted Luke couldn’t keep his expression together. He buried his face in the pancakes until cream smeared the corner of his mouth. I handed him a napkin and watched him chew and swallow, then he pouted in a playfully injured way. “I’ve known you ten years. Why shouldn’t I have what others have?”

I floundered for an answer, so to break the awkwardness I over-smiled.

“You want something from me, Mr. Luke?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then you’re coming to the class reunion with me next week.”

Class reunion? Next week? When did Luke suddenly become bold enough to ask that?

Before I could protest, he shot a look of triumph. “You promised. No backing out.”

“I…”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

I drew a deep breath before I could manage a full sentence. "When did you tell everyone? How come I didn't know?"

Luke Harper opened the class chat in front of me—the group that hadn't had a message in ages—and there it was, a long post from our class president.

Basically: It's been years since graduation, so let's meet for dinner.

"It went out last night. You probably didn't see it in time," Luke said.

I shot him a glare. I was drunk last night; I woke up this morning and was dragged straight to a café—of course I hadn't checked my messages. He'd planned this move long ago.

I sighed. "Does it matter whether you go or we go? We all end up at the same place."

"It's different," Luke said, his expression suddenly serious. A smear of cream clung to his lip, which made the solemnity look a little ridiculous.

"Walking into that room with you, being seen together—that's different," he said.

I instinctively turned my gaze away and a strange feeling rose in my chest. I felt like I knew what he meant, but I didn't let myself think about it.

Since this was a reunion, running into Evan Moore was to be expected. Even though I had steeled myself, the instant the door opened I couldn't help dropping my head.

"Well, look who it is—Lin's finally here!" the class president slurred, rosy-cheeked and waving a glass. Our chubby former deskmate and a few girls who'd been close to me were calling out.

I was planning to slip over to the girls when Luke suddenly grasped my wrist and lifted it up. "We came together. We're sitting together, okay?"

"Oh." The room erupted in teasing, just like old times.

I looked up and met Evan's calm smile. A sharp ache uncoiled in my ribs.

I wanted to ask how he'd been all these years. Whether he'd met a girl he loved who loved him back. Whether he'd thought about the seven years that divided us. But I didn't say a thing; I just smiled back and nodded.

"Back then the three of you were the closest, right? Now you two are together? What about Evan?" someone joked, and I panicked, about to turn and look, when I caught myself and forced my attention back to the classmate who'd spoken.

Luke laughed. "We're just friends who happened to come together."

I silently nodded.

"Hey Evan, heard you're a doctor now. Thought you'd take over the family business after graduation," another guy teased. Someone elbowed him. "That's ambition, not like you—hah hah…"

That finally drew my gaze to Evan.

A doctor…?

He still looked untouched by ordinary life—calm, clear, like moonlight. Even among people he didn't feel like he belonged to the smoke and noise.

He smiled. "You should do what you like."

The memory tugged—me, years ago, solemnly saying, "You have to choose what you like, Evan."

Was it because of that line? Are you nostalgic too?

He never once looked at me.

Luke slid a peeled shrimp onto my plate.

The sudden movement pulled my attention back. Luke's voice was low but steady. "You came with me. Could you just look at me?"

I stared at the neat, peeled shrimp and muttered, head bowed, "…I want some soy sauce."

After dinner, the biggest private room filled and people started singing.

I hate thick smoke-filled rooms, so I slipped outside for air.

The night city was calm and pretty; the air had that cool brush.

"Claire." Evan's familiar voice called. I turned.

A suit jacket lay across my shoulders. I felt flustered, smoothed my hair, then looked up. "Small world."

He snorted a laugh; the dimples on his face were clear. "A reunion is a coincidence?"

His smile made me even more awkward—like an old king who'd lost his head at seeing a beauty.

"…Have you lost weight? Maybe grew a bit taller?"

Evan didn't answer. He leaned on the railing, smiling, head turned toward me. I kept talking on my own. "Changed? I guess… I realized it's been seven years. I haven't really looked at you properly in seven years."

He turned his face up to the sky. Time had erased his boyishness; his features were more mature. But when he spoke, it felt like being back in high school—standing in the corridor between study sessions, catching a breeze.

"Claire, have you been okay all these years?"

That question felt like it came from another life. I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. My voice shook. "And you? Have you been okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Really?…" The half of "me too" choked in my throat. I wanted to sob, to tell him I was anything but fine. But I knew I was grown now; we weren't who we used to be.

A wave of grief almost knocked me over. I blurted the question before I could stop myself. "Evan, did you ever like me?"

His perfect expression cracked.

"Now you ask this…" he started.

"Did you or didn't you?"

Once the question left my mouth, there was no turning back. I didn't want excuses. I wanted a yes or a no.

He parted his lips, seemed to be about to speak, but said nothing. The breeze carried a single word to my ear: "Sorry."

I laughed—self-mockingly, like a kid making fun of her own flaws. It sounded foolish and a little bright. "Don't be so gloomy. Weren't we fine with how things are?"

We had been fine. I remembered us sitting on the stadium bench, legs swinging, orange soda sparkling in the sun. I had asked the questions girls fed me.

"If you met someone you couldn't be with, what would you do?"

Luke, cocky as ever, piped up first. "Who can't I get?"

I rolled my eyes at him and turned to Evan. He thought for a moment. "Probably say I never liked them," he said.

I was intrigued and asked why. "No sense letting someone hope for something impossible. It just makes people sad."

That night under a heavy moon, Evan asked, as if remembering the same scene, "What about you? Have you ever… liked me?"

I looked into his eyes—the ones like crushed starlight—and smiled. "No."

He looked away. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he didn't. "Is that so? Well, that's… good."

When we returned, the room had mostly emptied.

Luke looked surprised to see me. I asked, "Aren't you leaving?"

Then I shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. "You leaving?"

He asked the same. I gulped the unopened drink on the table before picking up my bag. "Leaving."

"I'll walk you out."

"No need."

I'd been expected to break down—ten years erased, the cinematic trope says I should drink myself senseless and stumble into the rain. But I didn't. It wasn't some grand catastrophe that destroyed love; it was the petty, stubborn pride we couldn't let go of.

The fake sweetness of the soda made me want to be sick. I took a breath, turned my back on the man who'd stood, and said, "I need some time alone." Then I walked out.

Evan had said, "I gave you a chance," when Luke propped open a beer and handed it to him. Evan took it and downed a gulp without a word.

"Can you tell me why?" Luke finally asked.

"My mom thinks she messed up my schooling and friends here by bringing me back, so she wanted me home," Evan said. "I can't just abandon her."

"My dad's healthy now and can handle the business, but what if one day he can't? I can't stay here forever."

Luke paused with the can. "You finally learned medicine after that fight with your dad—are you going to give that up?"

"Evan Inc. invests in healthcare. It's not mutually exclusive."

Luke's smile was unreadable. "So you're the one who's always been calculating."

Evan didn't argue. He simply stared up at the stars. "Luke, I'm really jealous of you."

"Enough," Luke cut him off. Then, like old times: "What about Claire? What are you going to do about her?"

Memories leapt like fish breaking the lake's surface. Evan said, "I can't make her give up her life to follow me."

"How do you know she wouldn't want to?" Luke pressed.

Evan sighed long and low. "Because I'm the one who won't."

Luke finished his beer and opened another. "How long are you going to cling to that self-righteousness?"

Evan turned, his face calm as the river that night. "My life isn't the kind that lets me burn bridges and leap. It's not like yours."

He patted Luke's shoulder. "That scarf you asked about back then—she gave it to you, right?"

Luke's hand hung in the air with the can, then he nodded slowly. He'd rescued that gift box the girl almost tossed away. When he asked why she didn't give it out, she had sniffed, "It's ugly. Can't give it to anyone."

Luke Harper said, "Give it to me. I'll run a little ways and throw it away. If you toss it too close someone might see."

And so, years passed, and that ugly, ugly scarf still hung in his closet.

Evan Moore looked down and smiled. "Some things," he said, "are just destined from the start."

He turned to Luke. "If there has to be someone with her, I hope it's you."

Luke froze, then came back like he'd remembered something. "You don't have to tell me. I like her. I'll chase her myself."

"It's not about telling."

Evan bent and picked up the empty soda cans strewn on the floor, one by one, dropping them into a plastic bag. He stood up.

"This time I'm back to wrap up some leftover projects at home. Once I'm done, I'll probably move abroad for good."

"I only hope that when I leave, you'll—like before—keep it secret. Don't tell her."

He stepped forward and tossed the bag into the trash, then turned to face Luke.

Moonlight washed over the young man's face, making his expression hard to read.

In that instant Luke thought Evan looked more mature somehow. Or maybe he always had been a touch more rational than others his age.

Rational enough to give up what he wanted, to hand over the one he loved.

Evan slotted his hands in his pockets and climbed the steps. He didn't look back or say goodbye.

Only a soft voice floated on the air—"Those three years were the happiest days for me. Being brothers with you was really… so good."

It drifted away, thin and tender.

(34) For the next few days I stayed in the café, busy testing new menu items and ringing up customers.

If I kept myself busy enough, my brain wouldn’t wander into dangerous places.

During that time, Luke didn't seek me out. Maybe, like me, he was trying to stay calm and say farewell to his past life.

Olivia King, on the other hand, knew nothing and stayed perpetually cheerful, popping into the shop every few days.

She asked me out; I didn't feel like shopping, so I used the café as an excuse I couldn't leave. But she was persistent—if I wouldn't go, she'd just sit in the shop and watch the goldfish in the tank, play with the cat, and stay the whole afternoon.

On a Wednesday afternoon, when foot traffic was light, the door creaked.

I had a quick instinct that Olivia was back.

But the sound I heard wasn't Olivia's loud greeting. It was steady footsteps, measured and slow. I glanced up—Nathan King.

I frowned.

"Olivia said you've been in a bad mood lately."

He made himself at home, pulling the chair closest to the register and sitting down.

Maybe because they were so alike, looking at his face brought a wave of sadness—and more than that, anger.

I wiped the counter constantly with a rag, not stopping, and said, "No."

Nathan didn't press. He observed the shop, then me, and then said, "Can I invest in you? Open a branch…"

"Nathan."

My tone was cold. "If you're bored, go home. If you have money you don't know what to do with, donate it."

He blinked, pulled his hand from the table, leaned back in the chair. "Sorry. I just… don't know how to do right by you."

For a brief second my hands faltered, but I said, "You don't have to. We're over."

"I've never thought it was over."

He took a breath. "I mean, even if it were—could I chase you again?"

The rag slipped from my hand.

I couldn't process it. "Are you crazy? There are so many pretty girls out there and you don't look, don't care—why chase me?"

Nathan's face was still that carved, noble thing—exactly like the first time I met him.

He lowered his eyes, as puzzled as I was. "And you? After three years together you can just leave?"

Only then did I remember why I had agreed to be with him in the first place.

For three years I'd told myself it was mutual convenience, so I poured my feelings for Evan into him without guilt.

I kept convincing myself our relationship was a way to stay clear-headed, a guardrail against falling.

After I learned the truth, I couldn't bear to look back at those three years.

If I didn't think about it, I could avoid facing the person I had been.

Similarly, I couldn't face Nathan—how happy I'd been when his face felt like Evan's, and how much that happiness turned to pain now.

Sometimes the perpetrator finds it harder to face the past than the victim does, because to face it is to watch your own conscience rip you apart.

I put on an annoyed tone. "So what do you want?"

"Make it up to me."

I frowned. "Make up—what?"

Nathan stood. Tall as he was, his approach made the air feel tight.

He said, "Will you… go to the amusement park with me?"

I stared at him for a long beat. "…What?"

(35) I still couldn't make sense of it. Not until we stood at the amusement park gate did I understand nothing.

The sun was bright. Nathan treated me like a kid—asking if I wanted a balloon, ice cream, a headband.

In the crowd he instinctively reached to hold my hand; I tore mine away.

He crooked his head but wasn't angry. "Hold my sleeve tight."

And so a ten-thousand-dollar shirt was getting abused in my hands—custom cufflinks dangling on the brink of being ripped off.

On the log flume, the attendant handed out disposable ponchos. Nathan frowned at the crinkly plastic.

I tore mine open, slid it on, and the thrill of the ride diluted the sadness. I urged, "Come on, hurry!"

"What's that for?"

"The poncho. The water will soak your clothes."

"Oh," came two small sounds as he clumsily tried to figure the thing out.

I asked, "You've never done this?"

He finally found the opening and shoved himself in. His voice came muffled from within the plastic. "I've never been to an amusement park."

The flatness of it pricked me.

I pretended to scold. "I'll help. You'd still be fumbling when we're done."

I smoothed the wrinkles. The poncho was one-size-fits-all; it didn't account for an almost six-foot man like Nathan.

When a wave hit, his shirt got soaked and water splashed his face.

He'd dressed casual for the day—no hair gel, fringe loose on his brow. When his hair got wet, he pushed it back with his hand.

A full forehead and a sharp jawline carved a defined face—arch brows meeting his hairline, a built-in aristocracy.

I overheard girls nearby murmur in awe.

In that moment I realized Nathan and Evan weren't the same. If Evan was a clear, wind-swept evening, Nathan was a deep, cold night.

His essence wasn't the mild warmth he'd shown me; there was a ruthlessness and a restrained electric heat in him.

The cold splash had erased that heat for now. He looked at me, dazed, like a dog just roused from sleep.

Amused, I handed him a pack of tissues and teased, "Wash your clothes yourself or my husband will see and think you wore them."

The girls' whispers shifted into a soft sneer—"Is he a kept man?"

"Well, no wonder he's so handsome."

(36)

Nathan pointed to the lit Ferris wheel, "Sit with me up there, okay?"

At that moment he seemed to truly understand: how to make me feel guilty, and how to ask for something I couldn't refuse in that guilty space.

The Ferris wheel was full of couples. Nathan and I walking together looked natural enough to be mistaken for one.

As we boarded, an attendant handed Nathan a rose. "Sir, remember to give this to your girlfriend at the top."

He looked at the rose without comment.

The wheel climbed. The park spread out beneath us.

I asked, "You really have never been?"

He kept his head tilted, looking out the clear panel. "Mm."

"Then how did you spend your childhood?"

"Studying. School."

"Ah—" I lengthened the sound and teased.

He laughed. "Don't use pitying tones, please. I learned fencing, horseback riding. By the time you were in junior high, I was already modeling for major fashion shows."

I hadn't even gotten to wipe the pitiful expression from my face. I scowled at him.

Then he asked back, "What about you? What were you like as a kid?"

I thought a moment. "I played. My parents didn't really watch me, so I fished in the river for shrimp, climbed trees, stole bird eggs."

Nathan turned and said my name earnestly, "Claire Bennett, this is the first time you've really mentioned your parents or your past."

I was taken aback and rubbed my nose awkwardly. "What's there to mention?"

"But I want to know."

He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned close. "I want to know what you were like in those days when I wasn't there."

The sudden closeness made me uneasy—so close I could feel his breath.

My thoughts scrambled. When my mind fuzzed I started rambling.

I said, "I argued, fought, kicked chairs, flipped desks."

Nathan folded his arms. "That must have always been someone else's fault."

I looked up at the man who had already leaned back into his seat. His collar was slightly open; the night seemed to swallow him whole, like a prince escaped from a fairy tale but actually a child of demons.

How could someone like him speak with such comforting, biased words?

My gaze drifted. I continued, "It wasn't so bad, really. By high school I stopped being like that."

Nathan's voice floated over, light as a feather. "Because you met Luke and the others?"

He mentioned Luke, but he didn't stop at Luke—he said "the others."

I froze.

Even though I’d had a feeling Nathan might've guessed bits of it before, we'd never talked about that period face to face, about them back then, buried in the past.

The Ferris wheel had climbed high enough to overlook the lights on the ground—little pinpricks like stars.

Nathan kept looking at me. For a long time he just looked, then he extended his index finger and pointed at himself.

"If I didn't look like him, would our story be different?"

He was asking something I couldn't answer.

I don't know how long I sat silent; my body had begun to stiffen.

Then Nathan, like a toy that had suddenly been rewound, broke the stillness. He smiled and said, "I won't ask anymore."

Then he lifted his hand and slowly reached toward me.

I saw that red rose sleeping in the dark. Nathan glanced out the window and murmured, "We're at the top."

I turned and looked out too. As if on cue, there was a loud bang, then fireworks burst across the sky.

Amid the booms, I thought I heard Nathan say, in a smaller voice, "I love you."

Because I love you, I'll always take your side, no matter right or wrong; because I love you, even if I know the answer I'll pretend I don't.

Because I love you.

When the Ferris wheel descended back to the ground, we instinctively stayed silent.

The park was closing and people were moving toward the exits. Nathan and I were wedged in the crowd, inching forward.

His assistant was waiting at the gate. Seeing what Nathan was wearing, surprise was barely contained on his face.

"Sir, how—"

Nathan stepped ahead. His voice came from the front. "Follow. I'll take you home."

Only when the car door shut did I snap out of my daze.

Nathan was just Nathan, right?

We left the park, he changed out of that ridiculous culture tee, and he was that Nathan—head of the King family on top of the office tower.

Ferris wheels always come down, roses wilt—the Nathan sitting beside me was both the same and entirely different.

When we were close, we could feel each other's breath. When we were most distant, we sat side by side, each harboring our own private storms. In this world, nothing felt more remote than that.

From the moment the engine started, his assistant politely pulled the curtain closed.

I watched the passing street, not sure what I was thinking—like I didn't know what he was thinking either.

Then Nathan said, "Can you not make me wait too long?"

I responded with a puzzled "Hm?"

I turned, but he still had his head angled toward the window. Rain began to fall in a soft drizzle, laying like tiny diamonds on the glass, collecting the neon lights outside into droplets that lit his face.

"I can wait for you, but not forever.

I can't be like Luke, who stood by you silently for years, watching you love someone else, heartbreak, and love again."

"You can not like me now—I’ll work to make you like me, but—"

He turned his head. Neon light cut across his nose.

"Give me an answer soon. Don't let me wait too long, okay?"

I'd never seen Nathan like this—no smile, like he was in a daze but every sentence boxed in with crystal clarity.

The tone was cold, but his scrunched nose made him look like a little dog left behind.

I, who should have been able to refuse outright, couldn't force the cruel words out. I looked down.

Maybe in that moment I believed it. I really believed Nathan and I could start over.

The video call on my phone rang. I glanced at the caller and hesitated before picking up.

"Hello? Everything okay?"

The barista grinding beans looked at me with surprise—he'd never heard my voice this flat before.

I answered the phone with a few low "Mm"s. The last thing I said was, "I'll be home tomorrow. Come by then."

After I hung up, the barista cautiously asked who it was. I paused, then said, "My mom."

My mom.

I hadn't used that word in years.

My childhood had never been happy—mostly because my parents' marriage wasn't.

They divorced when I was little. I remember curling into a corner of the couch and crying my eyes out.

My father chain-smoked and said, "So you think I'm useless."

It's strange—some fathers know they're useless but never admit it; they'd rather say their wife thinks so. Blame the world, blame fate—just not themselves.

My mother’s emotions must have finally boiled over. She cried and said, "If I thought you despised me, why would I have married you?"

Arguments like that erupted countless times in my memory, but that one felt different.

Instead of unleashing a blame-filled tirade, she controlled herself, took out a paper, and said, "Sign it."

From then on, my father vanished from my life.

After the divorce, my mother seemed happier—maybe because, before marrying my father, she had been a playful girl who liked to have fun.

When I was in middle school, she met the man she's married to now and they married quickly.

Her new marriage was so happy that I sometimes felt like I was unnecessary.

Maybe it was adolescent rebellion, maybe it was a desperate bid for attention from the only parent left—I became a problem kid in the eyes of teachers and parents.

That tension peaked the day her husband enrolled me in Waverly High.

From then, our mother-daughter relationship steadily worsened—perhaps my silent cold shoulder was all on me.

I graduated, got into Waverly University, worked part-time, and she transferred money to my account each month without touching a cent—maybe that was the only way she thought she could preserve my dwindling self-respect.

Every Spring Festival she'd message asking if I'd come home, and I'd ignore her.

That was her home, not mine.

But now, after all these years, this was the first time she'd insisted on seeing me in person.

I didn't know why, but I felt a bad premonition.

"This is the first time your mother has seen where you live in all these years."

She wore casual clothes and carried a shoulder bag. A beauty doesn't age into dusk—she still had grace.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Speak. What is it?"

This was the woman who'd given me life. I probably loved her, but my tone couldn't help the edge of sarcasm.

She didn't take offense. She sat on the couch as if to coax me like when I was little. "Come here."

I sat one seat away from her.

"Claire, I want to bring you home."

"Impossible."

The word left my mouth before I could stop it.

She grew anxious. "What are you being stubborn about?"

"My husband and I never had children all these years. When we're gone, won't all this just be yours?"

My voice was oddly calm. "I don't need it."

I continued, "He has children from his first marriage. I'm not his daughter. I don't want his things."

Sadness flickered in her eyes. "I really don't understand why you resist Uncle Liu so much—"

I interrupted, impatient. "Can you stop trying to force me into your family?"

"And stop using 'we couldn't have kids' as an excuse that it's for my own good."

She opened her mouth like she had more to say, then lowered her head.

"Claire," she said slowly, "I'm truly sorry I couldn't give you a complete family. Over the years, I'm afraid my mistakes made you fearful of marriage.

I always wanted you to accept Uncle Liu and to make it up to you. Maybe I went about it the wrong way, but please don't resent me, okay?"

I was silent for a long time. I wanted to tell her I never blamed her, that I never hated her for finding happiness. Who doesn't want their mother to be happy?

But the words stayed inside, reduced to a barely audible sigh and a, "I'll get you a glass of water."

She hurried up, and I said, "No need." As she turned away she wiped at her eyes.

"It's late. I'll go now. I won't bother you."

After the door closed, I stared at it long after.

For years I'd lived like a ghost.

I didn't hate my mother, but I couldn't reconcile with her. I loved the boy from my youth, but I couldn't be with him.

What are family, love, friendship? Have I really felt them?

I looked out at the gray sky and felt loneliness for the first time.

That night I dreamt my parents never divorced. My mother didn't take out a divorce paper that day—she cried about how hard things had been and kept going on.

I didn't go to Waverly High; with mediocre grades I went to an ordinary school.

Then the college entrance exams, university, graduation, work.

I never met someone gentle enough to change me. I never met a friend I could joke with years later. And of course, I never met Nathan.

My life was so ordinary that passersby wouldn't bother to look twice.

I married, then a few years later divorced over trivialities.

My mother had already gotten white hair; the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes made her look much older, but she supported my decision without hesitation.

She said, "I wish I had been as brave as you when I was younger."

She lifted her head slowly, and in her eyes I saw my own face.

The dream ended, and I woke with a start.

I quieted my breathing; my mind replayed the image of my mother speaking through tears.

Sometimes we complain about life without realizing that getting this far may already be the best ending life can offer us.

(42) Autumn had come.

Maybe because school had just started, the café got busier.

Olivia, meanwhile, kept coming in like nothing had happened, plopping down in the shop and, when she felt like it, pestering me to teach her how to pull latte art and make desserts.

Nathan, though, had seemed even busier lately.

"My brother's company has a project that's been having problems. He's been living at the office, working himself silly," Olivia said.

My hand paused on the dish towel. "Oh? Is it serious?"

She waved it off with a trusting air. "It's fine. He can handle it."

Good. If he was buried in work, he wouldn't come looking for me—and I didn't have to give him an answer.

"Miss, someone's here to see you," a barista called.

"Perfect—I'm heading out anyway. Don't worry about me." Olivia grabbed her limited-edition bag and hopped out.

I wiped my hands, took off my apron, and stepped outside.

The moment the door opened, I froze.

"Uncle… Liu?"

In the private room of the café, I looked at the man who seemed a few years older than my memory of him. I felt awkward. He, however, seemed unbothered—after decades as a boss, he carried himself with the natural air of someone used to being in charge. Still, today there was only a weary look on his face.

"Your mom came by a few days ago, did she?" He tapped the table with a forefinger as he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

He sighed, reached into his suit pocket as if to pull out a cigarette, then remembered he shouldn't smoke around me and pulled his hand back empty.

"If your mom asks you to come home, just agree, alright?"

I looked up in surprise. "Why?"

"Don't ask so many questions. Just do what your mom asks this once, okay?"

I stared at the grain of the table. I believed he loved my mother—but that wasn't enough to convince me.

"If you won't tell me why, I won't go home," I said.

He looked pained, thinking for a long time. Finally, with a long exhale, he said, "Your mom didn't want me to tell you… But a while back she fell down the stairs at home and was sent to the hospital. They said it wasn't looking good."

My mouth opened. For a moment my mind went blank and I couldn't speak.

"Now you know why, after all these years, your mom is asking you to come back," he said.

I don't know how I made it through that conversation or how I managed to see him out without breaking down.

"Give me two days to pack. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow," I said.

The tree wants to stand still but the wind won't stop; a child wants to care for their parent but time won't wait.

I had fought with my mother before—argued with her—because I'd never thought she would leave me. I took for granted that she would always forgive my mistakes. I forgot she was only human, subject to aging and sickness and death.

I rushed home and threw clothes into a suitcase until I had no energy left.

That night, half-asleep, I dreamed again.

In the dream my mother sat on the couch holding me as a toddler and teased, "When our Claire grows up, what kind of boy will she marry?"

I pouted, "Claire won't marry. Claire will always stay with Mom."

My mother had been a famous beauty in her youth; her every smile was full of life.

"How could you stay with me forever? Mom will grow old, too." She rocked me gently. "Whoever Claire likes in the future doesn't have to be handsome or rich, but he must walk a long, long road with you and say lots and lots of things."

Back then, my father had been struggling with business and was living away for long stretches. As a child I didn't understand, but now those words tasted bitter.

Did my mother ever have a young love? Did she once believe my father would be the one to stay? What happened later—when she married Uncle Liu—did she finally find happiness?

A hundred questions crowded me until the phone rang.

I checked the time—I'd only slept an hour; it was still dark outside. Seeing the caller made a bad feeling knot in my stomach.

"Come to the central hospital right away. Your mom—"

I couldn't make out much after that. The world spun. When my phone slipped from my fingers and hit the pavement with a sharp sound, it was the wake-up that told me this wasn't a dream.

(43) "She was just diagnosed—how is she already in the hospital?" Outside the operating room I almost stumbled toward Uncle Liu.

One afternoon had aged him further.

Even the strongest man is helpless in the face of life and death. He covered his face with his hand, voice coming through his fingers. "When they checked your mom at the hospital, it was already late-stage. She refused chemo—said she didn't want to waste whatever time she had left in a hospital."

Hearing "late-stage" and "chemo" felt like explosion in my head. The ringing in my ears made my limbs feel numb.

I resented time for being too short and yet somehow unbearably long. At last the operating room doors opened.

The doctor came out. Mask on, his expression was hard to read, but the deep furrow between his brows told me everything.

"She's stable this time," he said. "But we can't say what will happen next. And her remaining time is limited. Try to keep her happy while you can."

The man beside me sank into a chair.

Before, he had simply been an ordinary middle-aged man in my memory—worn from years of business dinners, a beer belly under an ill-fitting suit, a double chin when he smiled. Not conventionally handsome, but familiar.

Now, looking at the redness in his eyes, I could believe my mother's choice. He loved her—maybe he came late, but he had walked half her life with her.

He waved a hand at me. "You should go home. I'll stay with your mom here."

I shook my head. "It's too late for me to leave."

"Your mom didn't want me to tell you about her diagnosis. She's stubborn—like you. Go home and rest. I'll try to talk to her when she wakes."

Faced with that plea, my stubbornness evaporated. After a long silence I nodded.

"If she wakes, call me and tell me she's okay," I said.

"Okay."

Outside the hospital, the river air was cool. The chill finally registered in my limbs.

It was freezing.

So cold.

I crouched by the river and couldn't hold back my sobs.

I thumbed through my contacts blindly. The grief was enormous, and there was no one I felt I could tell.

Then my phone lit up with an incoming call. Tears blurred my vision as I pressed accept.

"You're not home today?" came the voice.

I choked out, "Mm."

"Are you crying?" he asked, the urgency in his voice making me break down entirely.

Luke panicked. "Hey, don't cry. Where are you? I'll come get you."

I couldn't speak; tears blurred the screen. I wiped at them and accidentally hit the end call button.

He called again and again and I kept hanging up—too much fuss. I couldn't even cry properly without being interrupted.

I don't know how long I stayed there. My legs went numb, my jeans soaking with tears—two different shades darkening the denim.

Then someone came running up behind me, out of breath. A hand landed on my shoulder.

I turned. The yellow streetlight stretched his silhouette long.

"I found you," he said.

At that moment the world tilted. My lost soul found its place again.

(44) He yanked me up. My numb legs couldn't hold me so I leaned against him.

My tears were spent; my voice rough, I said, "Luke, I might lose my mom."

He froze, standing as if carved from stone.

He opened his mouth to comfort me. "It's going to be okay—"

But he hesitated, not sure what words could heal such profound grief, and his sentence faltered.

Instead, he reached out and patted my back gently.

I smelled that familiar, subtle scent he always had—like some unremarkable summer years ago when I sat in the shade with my back to the basketball court and a stray ball flew toward my head. Luke, who had been joking next to me, tossed the ball back in one motion and put his other hand instinctively between me and harm.

That memory—years old and small—came back with the same quiet scent. I hadn't realized how comforting it was until that instant.

He showed me that someone could go from yelling at boys in the sun to, in the next second, leaning on your shoulder with the same familiarity and awkwardness—asking if you wanted some water.

In that moment my mother's words flashed through my mind: "Love isn't money or advantage. It's having someone who will walk long roads with you and say lots and lots of things."

I lifted my head and took in his face.

Luke's gaze skittered away. "How long are you going to lean on me?"

I wiped my eyes. "I want to go to the hospital. To see my mom."

Strength returned to my legs. I took a few steps forward, then turned back to the stunned boy beside me.

"Will you come with me?" I asked.

"I mean—"

"Let's walk over together."

(45) I'd never seen my mother like this. Frail as paper that could tear at any moment, tubes in her arms, eyes closed on the hospital bed as if she'd fallen asleep and would never wake up.

In my memory she should always have held her head high and never backed down—against life, against me.

Maybe Uncle Liu was right. My mother and I are too much alike—both stubborn, neither willing to give in.

But I'd rather stubbornly keep fighting with her for the rest of my life than see her like this, stripped of all life.

My eyes blurred and wet again. My whole body started shaking uncontrollably until a hand slipped into mine.

"Don't be afraid."

He said it like he understood words wouldn't erase my fear, but he wanted me to know there was someone who hoped I wouldn't be scared anymore.

Maybe he meant he'd stay with me and face it together.

The door opened and Uncle Liu came in carrying a thermos of hot water.

He was a man who wore suits and carried briefcases, but now he'd rolled up his sleeves and was holding the thermos with both hands. He paused when he saw me, then glanced at Luke.

"You actually came?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Well, okay then."

He sighed and looked at the woman on the bed. "She shouldn't blame me, right?"

Following his gaze, I looked at the woman on the bed and whispered, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me."

He bent to set the thermos down and when he straightened up he looked tired. "She's not just your mom—she's my wife too."

That single sentence made the tears spill over again.

I forced my voice steady. "I'll go buy some porridge for her."

Then I took Luke's hand and headed for the door.

Outside, I sat on a chair and couldn't stop crying. Luke crouched in front of me without speaking, his hands gently stroking my back over and over.

My head was against my knees. "I always thought my mom would never die, do you get that?"

"I thought we'd fight forever, that we could stay stubborn toward each other. We could always make up later because we'd have so much time."

"…Do you get it?"

Luke murmured softly, "I do. I do."

After what felt like an eternity, we bought porridge and went back into the room. My mother was awake.

"You came back?" she said, propping herself up on the bed and turning to look at me.

I struggled to contain my emotions. "Why didn't you… tell me anything?"

She smiled. After a major operation she seemed almost childlike, playfully petulant. "What's wrong? If I told you, you would've made me better, right?"

I froze up. Her joking took the edge off a lot of the grief.

"At least now I can keep you company a bit longer."

"Aren't you keeping me company right now?"

Her glance slid from me to Luke. She lifted her chin. "Introduce him."

Before I could say anything she added, "A boyfriend?"

The lid of the thermos wobbled and a spoonful of porridge almost spilled out.

"Mom—"

"Hello, Auntie."

I widened my eyes at Luke's involuntary smile and the way he turned on the sweet act for an elder.

"This guy rushed to see Claire. When your health gets better we'll bring a proper gift and call again."

"Sounds good. How old are you, young man? Where are you from?"

"Claire and I were high school classmates. We—"

They finished each other's lines in perfect duet.

"Hey!"

I set the porridge on the bedside tray and shot Luke a look warning him not to say anything silly.

Uncle Liu, sensing his place, pulled a stool and sat by the bed, feeding my mother spoonfuls and talking away as he fed.

"She's happy, that's what matters. Since she knew she was ill she hasn't been this cheerful in ages," he said.

His words swallowed up my attempt at making explanations.

I awkwardly poked Luke's arm. "Let's go handle the hospital bill."

"I already paid," Uncle Liu said.

"Then let's go pick up the medicine."

"The nurse will bring it up."

"Then—"

My mother swallowed a mouthful of porridge and teased, "You're in such a hurry to take your little boyfriend away. What—hide him?"

Luke suddenly seemed to forget to be subtle. Ignoring me, he scooted closer to the bed. "Can I chat with Auntie a little?"

"Luke."

"Ah! Auntie, where were we? We were talking about Claire's high school—"

"What was she like? I don't even know her high school self."

"It's okay, it's okay, I'll tell you—"

The afternoon sun poured in through the window. My mother listened, laughing, as Luke recounted my past.

It was such a beautiful scene I almost didn't want to interrupt it.

For a second I allowed myself to believe—if someone was willing to believe I could be the person in their story, what harm was there? Maybe it wasn't all that bad.

(46) My mother's mood improved day by day, but her illness worsened.

The doctors said even with hospitalization she might only live another month—just one month.

Holding back my tears, I packed our things from the hospital and followed Uncle Liu as he brought my mom home.

Everyone's mood was heavy, but she was gleeful, pulling me to see the trees in the backyard and the goldfish in the pond.

There was a wicker chair under a tree; she sat in it and rocked like an old man. "Claire, I have no regrets in life. Don't be sad on my account," she said.

"But your mom hopes you won't have regrets in your life."

Uncle Liu pointed to a row of peach trees on the small hill behind the house. "When autumn passes and spring comes, the peach blossoms will bloom. When the peaches fruit, they're sour and astringent—she liked that kind."

He smiled with a look of fond remembrance. My mother's smile echoed in my head. "Mr. Liu has taken such good care of me over the years."

But autumn had just passed and spring hadn't come yet. The woman who carried the same blood as me lay quietly in that wicker chair and never woke again.

Our winters usually never saw snow—except this year. A heavy snowfall blanketed the backyard, the trees, the wicker chair in white.

Uncle Liu took me and Luke up the hill behind the house. He pointed to rows of bare peach branches and said, "These are them. Remember to put a few offerings for your mother every year. If one day I'm gone… don't forget."

Only then did I notice him turning his back and hurriedly rubbing his eyes.

On the way down the hill I watched his much-older silhouette and said, "He'll be lonely once the person walking beside him is gone."

Luke said nothing. Instead, he reached out and hooked his pinky around mine.

(47) When the weather warmed, the coffee shop's second branch opened.

On opening day I saw the kind-faced man again.

This time it was to say goodbye.

"Your mother is staying in Ashton. My roots are here," he told me. "But life is short. I want to go see other places for her, so when I go be with her in a few years she won't be bored."

"Before I go, I couldn't stop worrying about you. Take this."

He handed me a file folder. Inside were property transfer contracts.

I reflexively pushed the folder back. "Thank you, but I don't need these."

He didn't take it. "These aren't mine. Your mother prepared them for you. Accept them."

My hands froze. He continued, "Ever since she knew she was ill she was getting things in order. She never truly held a grudge. She always loved you."

Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't speak for a long moment.

"Alright, I'm leaving. If anything happens, call me. In some ways, we're family."

I choked out, "You take care too."

A staffer ran out through the line of flower wreaths, out of breath. "Manager, we have too many customers! We're swamped—please help!"

I wiped my eyes with my back turned and then turned to her. "Go put up a sign: new branch opening today, everything fifty percent off."

The girl, a recent grad, blinked. "Wasn't it eighty percent off?"

"I'm happy today."

"Happy about what?"

"Happy… because I made up with my mom."

She snorted a laugh and teased, "Manager, you're old enough to still fight with your mom?"

I tapped the folder lightly against her head and she dutifully ducked, but kept grinning.

"Hurry up."

"Okay!"

People streamed down the street and cars flowed by. I looked up at a sun that wasn't harsh today.

The world was still busy.

(51)

Days passed smoothly until one afternoon, after finishing work, I found my dead phone lit up with a dozen missed calls.

I called back and the line answered quickly. "What's so urgent?" I asked.

Luke didn't answer directly. The wind howled on his end. "Where are you now?"

I was about to respond when he cut in: "Wherever you are—come to the airport right now."

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

He didn't answer directly, only urged, "Hurry."

What could make Luke so anxious? The airport—my stomach dropped. I had a flash of dread.

I hesitated, unsure how to reply.

Then he slowed his words, as if to make sure I heard: "Claire Bennett, between you and me, at least one of us should get what we want."

I don't know which nerve that hit, but I said in a low voice, "I'm coming."

That afternoon the sun streamed through the terminal windows. I hopped out of a taxi, gasping, and ran to the spot Luke had told me about.

There I saw him—the man who dared to dream but never spoke his wish out loud.

His eyes were a little surprised when he saw me, then he said helplessly, "Luke told you, didn't he?"

I made a small sound of agreement and lowered my head, unsure what to say next.

He motioned for me to sit. We sat on the airport lounge chairs, sunlight pouring through the windows.

I asked, "How long until the flight?"

He glanced at his watch. "Forty minutes."

Then he added, "About the length of a class."

The word hit me like a bell full of memories. I asked, "If it were the old days, what would we be talking about?"

Evan's face went serious as he thought. "You'd complain about the math problems you got wrong. You'd repeat some gossip you overheard somewhere. You'd tell me about… the future."

As I got older, my tear ducts seemed to get more sensitive. Just one sentence and the tears welled up, nearly unstoppable.

I said, "But our 'now' is already that 'future,' isn't it?"

If now is the "future" we once imagined, what about the future after that?

Will there even be a future?

Evan answered with a small, resigned "hm," and then fell silent.

I glanced at the clock on the wall—thirty minutes.

He turned his head away, his back to me. I couldn't see where he was looking, only heard his voice.

He smiled wryly. "Luke shouldn't have asked you to come."

I couldn't tell if I was accusing him or stating a fact. I only remember saying, "Does it matter whether he asked or not? This isn't the first time you've chosen like this."

Emotion took over and I couldn't stop. "You never choose me between the two, do you?"

Evan turned toward me. "Is that so?" He opened the outer compartment of his suitcase and took out a document.

I opened it, confused—and then, when I saw the cover, the tears broke free.

It was an acceptance letter from Waverly University.

"I thought I'd never get to show you this in my life," he said. "Claire, I once chose you firmly and only."

My world seemed to collapse and, at the same time, felt like everything I'd lived for up to now had been waiting for that moment—waiting for that sentence.

Evan sighed and asked, "Claire, if we hadn't been deskmates back then, what do you think we'd be like now?"

I looked up, puzzled. "If we weren't deskmates, how would I have met you?"

He put his hand on my head with that comforting gesture he'd always used when we were young. He didn't speak, but in an instant I understood what he meant—if we hadn't shared a desk, he might not have had that halo of excellence around him, and I might never have noticed him.

Noticed Evan—the person himself.

I knew the right answer but couldn't say it.

One second, two, three… He bore my silence but said nothing, just pointed to his watch with a smile. "I should go."

Evan stood. The suitcase wheels scraped the floor with a clear sound.

I watched his back. I had watched that back countless times before.

Tears blurred the world; my mouth opened, but no words came out.

I knew this time I would be saying goodbye forever.

When the golden wind meets the jade dew, it can outshine a thousand earthly things.

But this is enough, Evan.

This is enough, I told myself.

(52) "He still left."

At the coffee shop, Luke stared at the steaming cup in front of him and said that.

I leaned against the table and softly said, "Mhm."

Luke fixed his gaze on the coffee; steam curled up in spirals.

Quiet Luke was rare; sad Luke was rarer. He almost never let anyone peek into his heart. But this time, in the heavy silence, the depth of his sadness was almost tangible.

To break the mood I said, "I want to leave for a while, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe Uncle Liu is right—the world's too big for us to stay stuck in one small place. While we're young, we should go see more of it."

Luke blinked. "Why the sudden decision? Because of Evan?"

I looked through the café window at the vast blue sky. "Yes. And no."

My mother had died; the person I thought I resented left lightly, and after leaving I was told she loved me. The boy I thought would love me forever waved goodbye at the same time.

People on the street, stars I'd seen, hands I'd held—all seemed to vanish in the face of life and death.

I didn't even know what had kept me going these years.

I wanted to go walk, see things, and—if possible—figure out what love truly was.

Like Evan's last question: is there really someone in this world who would drop every halo and outer appearance and love another person plainly and nakedly?

I smiled at Luke. "Do you remember in high school when our class subscribed to that geography magazine? We pointed at the pictures and promised we'd see those places when we were grown."

His finger tapped the table. "Claire…"

"Don't stop me," I cut in. "You know my decisions don't change."

"I mean… just be careful."

(53) Nathan sat opposite me, a card lying between us.

"Ten thousand dollars—no more, no less. I'm giving it back."

He frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Those three years—we might as well have been in a normal relationship. So I should repay you."

Nathan's brow knitted tighter. "Are you trying to sever ties with me?"

I seemed to read the chaotic thoughts in his head and smiled. "I just don't want to owe you anything anymore."

"But—"

I continued, "Nathan, I think I've owed you an apology."

His expression froze, suddenly awkward. "Why bring that up out of the blue?"

"I was afraid it would be too late," I said. "I'm leaving."

Nathan snapped his head up. "Are you sick?"

I closed my eyes briefly. "I'm leaving A City for a while. I don't know where I'll go, or when I'll come back."

He was silent a long time. Finally: "Come back early."

I looked at his face—the face I'd seen every day for three years—and a question rose in me.

"If back then you hadn't snuck out, or if you hadn't seen me—would you still like me?"

Nathan seemed puzzled by the question. "If that were true, how could I have noticed you later?"

I looked down at my shoes. It had rained today; mud clung to the canvas edge. Lucky it was just my old sneakers.

At the same time I realized that Nathan's feelings for me and my feelings for Evan were the same, weren't they? They were both about someone appearing at a particular moment. It wasn't that their appearance alone made that moment profoundly meaningful.

If not Evan, maybe someone else. If not Claire Bennett, maybe someone else.

I sighed and stood to leave. As I pushed the glass door open I suddenly asked, "That day—when I had just moved out and then came back—what were those red marks on your arm?"

Nathan turned to look at me. We held that gaze for what felt like forever. He finally lowered his head and pinched the skin where he'd rolled up his sleeve—instant red.

I turned my head and laughed quietly, then went out and closed the door.

(54) I entrusted the two shops I owned in A City to a young clerk to manage.

On her first day on the job she wore the "store manager" badge and bounced behind me like she was walking on springs, barely taking a normal step.

"Can I have an opening sale? Like a twenty percent off?"

"Sure, sure—fifty percent even, just don't lose money."

I folded my arms and looked around, pretending to worry, "Don't let people take the whole place apart before I come back."

"No way! I'll make you a fortune!"

I smiled. The driver was waiting outside, already calling to hurry me. I grabbed my suitcase. "I'm off."

I left with almost nothing and no real plan.

Wherever I went I called a local taxi and asked the driver to take me to the most famous sights.

I saw romantic water towns, fishermen standing on bridges, heavy snowfalls, and met all kinds of people.

Once, the driver who picked me up wasn't a local. He had a thick A City accent. When he learned I was from A City he got excited and, hearing I planned to visit the top tourist spots, waved his hand dismissively. "Those places are for tourists. If you really want a view, climb the mountain here and watch the sunrise. It's enough."

I echoed, "Sunrise?"

"Yeah. The sunrise on this snow-capped mountain—it's unbelievably beautiful." He pointed like he couldn't believe I wouldn't trust him, "My son's school geography magazine even has it. I wouldn't lie—books don't lie."

I looked at the sky outside and decided, "Let's go."

Because it wasn't famous, the mountain had few visitors. I rented a tent and planned to stay the night.

At dawn the next day most people were already up, ready for the sunrise.

The air was sharp. I drew my coat tighter and sat on a small stool outside my tent, waiting.

A voice came from behind me. "Can I squeeze in?"

A man carrying a small stool of his own, with an ugly scarf and a windburned face, sat down beside me.

"You…" I meant to say more but didn't know how to start.

He just sat and looked up at the horizon. "Am I late?"

I followed his gaze to the distance.

"No. Just in time."

A vivid streak of color rose before us.

Just in time—everything felt brand new.

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The next scene of His Stand-In Loved Someone Else begins with: “After school we could hit the internet café, stand in line for half an hour for skewers, but Evan couldn’t—because at home he already had private tutors lined up back-to-back.”… Continue with the remaining 1078 story sections.

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