As the noise of students leaving school rose from the playground, I was suddenly reminded of the first time I met Samantha in my sophomore year of high school. It, too, was because of a fight.

I had punched my deskmate for calling me a bastard. She had beaten up the PE rep for calling her a jinx.

Two stubborn people who refused to admit fault—and had no parents to call—were made to stand together beneath the flagpole, on display before the entire school.

Amid the principal's scolding, she noticed the cotton stuffed into my bleeding nose and the cut on my index finger from shattered glass.

Her dark eyes narrowed. "You lost the fight?"

I raised a brow. "I skipped breakfast this morning. Next time, I'll beat him until he begs."

She paused, then said lightly, "Next time you fight, come find me. I'll make sure you win."

Thomas lifted his hand.

"Hold on. You fought because your deskmate ran his mouth. Why did she fight?"

I rubbed the scar on my finger, my gaze sliding down past the word Mother—

—Grandmother.

"She lost her father when she was little. Her grandparents died in elementary school. In middle school, her mother fell ill. Her tuition was scraped together by relatives and neighbors. Her classmates all say she's a jinx."

Thomas stared, stunned, then sighed after a long moment.

"Two unlucky kids, finding each other."

I pressed my lips together.

In truth, after we got into a top university, the two of us became three.

A good friend I hadn't seen in years turned out to be at the same university. He ran toward me excitedly and accidentally knocked over Samantha's cup. The milk tea she had made for me splashed all over both of them.

Afraid their first impressions of each other would be ruined, I hurried to introduce them.

"This is my girlfriend, Samantha.

"Samantha, this is my best friend from the orphanage—Zane."

…

My relationship with Samantha was never what you'd call romantic.

In high school, we went to class during the day and skipped evening study sessions at night to hand out flyers, earning money for the next day's meals.

When the flyers were gone, we curled up together in the corridor outside her mother's hospital ward, using the hospital lights to tutor each other.

I was bad at math and good at French. She was the opposite.

So as not to disturb the other patients, we could only write what we wanted to say on scraps of paper.

Over three years of high school, we filled five whole notebooks with notes. Our SAT scores were exactly the same.

On the day we checked the results, her mother couldn't eat a thing. I fed her spoonfuls of porridge, and she gripped my fingers, her eyes reddening.

"Adam… if you and Samantha can't get into the same university, will you still come see me?

"It's fine if you fall in love with another girl in the future. Just come back and be my son, all right?

"Adam… I really can't bear to let you go."

When Samantha came in with sun-dried clothes in her arms and saw us crying together, she sighed helplessly.

"Worst case, we do long distance. Once we graduate, we'll get married right away. Anyway, we're meant to stay together for life."

Later, when we entered university, I moved out of the orphanage, and her mother was discharged from the hospital.

She could no longer bring herself to accept help from relatives and neighbors, so the two of us applied for student loans together.

University gave us more time to work. I took two jobs. She took three.

We were in different departments, so most days we only saw each other late at night, walking back to the dorms after work, leaning close and talking about our hopes for the future.

We made a pact: in our junior year, we'd compete for funded exchange-student spots; in senior year, we'd go to Abrerica together. Then, after graduation, we would get married.

For that future full of promise, we studied harder, worked harder, and saved every cent we could.

But just when Samantha and I had finally saved enough money for studying abroad, fate played a cruel joke on us.

Samantha's mother took a sudden turn for the worse and was admitted to the ICU.

Every cent we had saved went straight into her treatment. We borrowed heavily from others, but it still wasn't enough. Her condition kept fluctuating. Samantha stayed by the ICU doors day and night, unable to leave.

I skipped all my classes and worked from morning till night, sleeping only three hours a day. Every dollar I earned went straight to her.

During that time, neither of us had the energy to talk about the future. Our text messages were filled with nothing but critical condition notices from the hospital and my daily transfer records.

The future felt too distant. The present alone was already exhausting.

Fortunately, the heavens did not push us too far. Before the final list was confirmed, her mother's condition stabilized.

Six months of unbearable tension suddenly loosened.

She rushed back from the hospital. I quit two of my part-time jobs. Like lunatics, we crammed together and threw ourselves into the long-awaited study-abroad exams.

The results were posted quickly. Once again, we had identical scores.

But after missing an entire semester of classes, both of our participation grades were zero.

Her appeal was based on caring for her mother.

I didn't even need to appeal—every teacher and administrator knew I had been working to make money.

Filial devotion defeated practical considerations. I lost.

My qualification was revoked, and the spot went to the third-ranked student.

Samantha stormed into the academic office, insisting on proving that all my jobs had been for her sake. But the decision was final. There was no turning it back.

Clenching her fists, she said that if I wasn't going, neither was she.

But this had been her dream since childhood—to study business in Abrerica, return home to start her own company, and give her mother and me a better life.

I forced myself not to cry, grabbed her hand, and said harshly, "If you don't go, I'll break up with you."

She sobbed uncontrollably, holding me tight and swearing through her tears, "Adam, wait for me. I will come back after I finish my studies and marry you. I'll give you a home. If I let you down, may I die without a whole body."

By the time I finished my story, Thomas was already crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"You've suffered too much… far too much," he said. "But then, why didn't you get married? Did something happen to her in Abrerica?"

I shook my head calmly. "She fell in love with another man."

His sobbing stopped abruptly. Thomas wiped his eyes and clenched his fist in fury.

"Then she might as well have died in Abrerica!"

I sometimes think heaven is simply unfair. Every time I believe I'm about to have a family, it throws another obstacle in my way.

On the day the exchange student list was posted, the boy ranked third shouted with joy in front of the notice board. When he turned around, our eyes met.

"Adam!"

"Zane?"

I was still dazed when he rushed over excitedly.

He accidentally knocked into the tea Samantha had made to comfort me.

And that was how the only two exchange students in the entire university became connected.

…

Zane and I both grew up in an orphanage.

I was a few months older, so I naturally became the one who looked after him.

When we fought for food, I let him eat first.

When there were new clothes, I let him choose first.

When there was a chance to study, I sent him to the better art school.

So when I found out he and Samantha would be studying abroad together, Zane patted his chest and promised me, "Adam, don't worry. I'll keep an eye on Samantha. I won't let any other man get close to her."

At that moment, what I thought was—

At least Samantha wouldn't be alone and helpless overseas.

After they left the country, my life returned to the same relentless busyness as before the exams.

Samantha's mother and I still had to live. We had rent to pay and medicine to buy.

The only way was to work day and night, then sleep through classes to make up for it.

Thomas frowned again.

"That's her mother. Why are you the one taking care of her, buying medicine, and earning money to support her?

"She goes to Abrerica and just enjoys herself? No job, no income, and she doesn't give you a cent?"

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I answered softly, "Yeah."

When she first went abroad, she called me every day, sighing about how expensive everything was, how she couldn't find a job, how she never had enough to eat.

Zane complained too, saying life there was nothing like home—that even our days in the orphanage had been better than studying abroad.

I felt sorry for them. I squeezed money out of my own teeth and transferred it to them, supporting their living expenses.

Later, the calls grew fewer and fewer. After half a year, they only took the money and no longer replied.

At that point, Thomas's phone rang. He hurried off to clock out.

I took one last look at Lisa's file, then stood up and went home.

In the shower, I pulled off my scarf and exposed the vicious, ugly scar on my neck.

Samantha had caused it.

Ten years ago, in the spring, I couldn't reach her—and Zane had vanished too. Gritting my teeth, I used the last of my money to buy a cheap plane ticket and went to look for her.

What I saw was Samantha in Zane's arms, kissing him deeply beneath a tree.

When they parted, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. They looked at each other and smiled, their eyes filled with starlight.

The spring breeze passed by. The streetlamp glowed dimly. Maple leaves rustled softly.

They looked like a painting, like a poem written entirely of tenderness.

I went mad. I rushed over and tore them apart, then smashed the cup I was holding into Zane's face.

When I raised my hand to slap him again, the cup flew back at me—thrown by Samantha.

It struck my cheek.

Scalding hot water burst out and ran down my neck.

I had forgotten—the lid of that cup had been broken since the day they met. It never closed properly. All these years, I hadn't had the money to buy a new one.

The skin where the water flowed burned with agony. Samantha seemed not to notice at all. She pulled Zane behind her and looked at me coldly.

"Adam, if you want to hate someone, hate me. Zane didn't wrong you."

I hated her. Of course I hated her.

Ignoring the pain of the burn, I demanded to know why they had betrayed me.

Zane was crying too—at first only choking softly. But when the onlookers formed a circle around us, he suddenly exploded.

"Adam, you have no idea how hard things are for us overseas! We have only each other to rely on. Being together is only natural!"

I refused to accept that.

"Do you think my life back home is easy? You have each other to depend on—what do I have? I have only myself!"

Samantha stopped me when I lunged forward, pulling him into her protective space.

She lowered her eyes, her gaze cold and distant.

"I'm sorry. This is my fault. But Zane didn't lie to you. In this past year, we went through a lot together. We didn't tell you because we didn't want you to worry."

My heart turned cold. I stared at her and asked, "So because you went through a lot this past year, the seven years we went through together don't count anymore?

"Do you know that before I came to look for you, your mother was still at home talking about you, afraid something might happen to you?

"And in the end, for half a year you didn't even call to ask how she was. You took the money I sent you—then turned around and started dating my best friend!"