I drifted into a hazy dream, returning to the year I turned eighteen. Back then, I was the perfect good girl, the pride of my parents, teachers, and classmates. Meanwhile, Armani Morrison was nothing but a high school dropout with a tough exterior. Our lives seemed destined to run parallel without crossing—until fate thought otherwise.

That summer, I stumbled upon Armani in an alley near school, caught up in a fight and tending to his injuries. He sat on the ground, his white T-shirt stained red around his abdomen. Hearing my footsteps, he looked up at me, his handsome features barely visible beneath the bruises. I offered to help him up, but he told me tersely to get lost. Ignoring his words, his pale face from the blood loss compelled me. Determined, I helped him to his feet and supported him step by step to the hospital.

I watched as the doctor bandaged his wounds and settled his medical bills before leaving. Sitting on the hospital bed, he watched me with those striking eyes, a tear-shaped mole at the corner shimmering slightly. He introduced himself slowly, "Armani Morrison."

I nodded, acknowledging him. As I turned to leave, his impatient voice stopped me. "What's your name?"

"Mikayla Morrison," I replied.

That was our first encounter.

Later, on a day when some thugs cornered me in an alley after school, Armani came to my rescue. With a relaxed air, he returned the money I'd spent on his medical bills. For the next few days, he lingered in that alley, making sure those troublemakers remembered I was under his protection, untouchable by anyone else.

From then on, we gradually became closer. I'd occasionally bring him food, like sandwiches and spiced honey cake, and he'd often walk me home. When my parents found out, they insisted I stop spending time with him. But for Armani, I disobeyed them for the first time—like I would countless times afterward.

On the day of the get-together with my friends, I arrived late because I had been at the hospital for chemotherapy. By the time I got there, they were already deep into a game of Truth or Dare. Vienna was participating as well and had just chosen "truth."

"Is there someone in this room you have feelings for?" someone asked.

Vienna's fair cheeks flushed bright red. She bit her lower lip and shyly glanced at Armani before nodding slowly, as if I weren't even there. Her intentions were crystal clear to everyone present.

The room buzzed with murmurs. I was still trembling from the aftermath of chemo, my face ghostly pale as I looked over at Armani. He simply chuckled warmly, "Vienna, don't be silly."

His tender gaze toward Vienna was unmistakable, his voice free of any reprimand. He knew Vienna had feelings for him. He couldn't bear to hurt her, yet he seemed perfectly fine hurting me over and over for her.

Soon, it was my turn in the game. I chose "truth" as well.

"Do you regret being in love with Armani?" someone asked me.

Armani's smile disappeared instantly. He cast a stern look at the person who asked the question.

Someone tried to lighten the mood, "What kind of question is that? She ran away with Armani, didn't she? Isn't it obvious?"

Another added, "Exactly, stop being ridiculous."

Fighting through the pain, I forced a smile. "If that's the question, then I choose dare."

The room went silent, all eyes on me and Armani. He watched me intently, but I acted as if I didn't notice.

"So what's the dare? Ten shots of vodka, right?"

Nobody said a word.

I poured the drinks myself, one glass after another, downing them. By the fifth glass, the strong liquor burnt my throat, leaving me struggling to breathe.

Armani grabbed my hand, his expression dark and severe. "Stop drinking, Mikayla."

But I shook off his hand, the bitterness lingering in my mouth. I met his gaze, "Armani, I, Mikayla Morrison, will face the consequences."

Back then, I gambled on Armani's love and became his girlfriend. Later, I took another gamble on his love, running away with him to a foreign city to start anew. Now, watching him with Vienna, I know I've lost the bet. Between Vienna and me, he clearly cares more about her.

But that's okay; I'll face the consequences.

Tears welled up in my eyes, my already upset stomach twisting in agony. Yet my heart ached even more than my body.

Countless nights I've woken up, weeping after dreaming of my parents' lifeless faces. I never regretted it until now.

But now, I do.

That day, when I had my ninth drink, Armani decided it was time to end the party. He carried me home, just like he used to when I was sick, and made me a pot of hangover soup, feeding it to me one spoonful at a time.

As night fell and sleep started to take over, I heard Armani break the silence. "Mikayla, why didn't you answer today's question?"

His words startled me awake. I turned to look at him, but he was facing the other way. Even though we lay on the same bed, close enough to reach out and touch, it felt like our hearts were miles apart.

Gently, I asked, "Armani, do you really want to know the answer?"

He was quiet for a long time. "It's late. You should get some sleep," he eventually said.

Tears rolled quietly down my face. I suddenly remembered when he first arrived in this city, his eyes so genuine, as if the person in front of him was his whole world. "Mikayla, I promise I'll give you a wonderful life," he had vowed then, his eyes shining with love every time they met mine.

Nineteen-year-old Mikayla was overflowing with love and filled with the intense affection of nineteen-year-old Armani. I was a lively and optimistic young woman.

But now, at twenty-six, Mikayla Morrison is all alone, with my parents gone and a cancer diagnosis looming over me.

Armani, is this the wonderful life you once promised me?

I watched his sleeping profile, still able to see glimpses of the rebellious spirit in his brow. Tears slipped silently down my cheeks.

You once loved me so deeply. How can you now bear to make me so miserable?