My life was never short of admirers, but none persisted like Nick Singer, who stayed by my side for ten years. This childhood friend, from the first day he brought me flowers that I promptly tossed in the trash, slowly became the only guy consistently in my orbit. Everyone said that presence was the deepest confession, that I’d never find another like Nick Singer. Just as I finally decided to accept him, I saw an identical bouquet of white lilies—the same kind he’d given me—on my sister Maya’s bedside table. In that moment, I froze. 1 The next day at Northwood High, Nick Singer brought me a red rose. I frowned, not even glancing at it, and tossed it straight into the trash. Nick flinched, but didn’t get upset, just smiled and leaned in: “What’s wrong? Did I do something?” From age seven to seventeen, no matter how much I lashed out at Nick, he always indulged me like this. The worst time was when I accidentally shattered his late mother’s treasured locket. My eyes red, I wanted to apologize. But Nick simply asked if my hand was hurt. Even though later, he’d hide and cry alone. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. I turned my head, muttering, “The white lilies you gave me yesterday, why does my sister have the same ones?” Nick chuckled, “Nothing to do with me. I know you can’t stand her, so I’ve never interacted with her.” Right. Nick and Maya Zinberg barely exchanged a few words; how could he possibly have given her flowers? I breathed a sigh of relief, about to swallow my pride and apologize to Nick. The class bell rang. I wrote a note and tucked it into his desk. But then I noticed a pink envelope in Nick’s desk, adorned with a small heart. I recognized the handwriting. It was my sister’s, Maya Zinberg. 2 My fingers hooked the pink envelope, and without a second thought, I pulled it out. The letter unfolded, revealing Maya Zinberg’s familiar, elegant script. In it, she wrote about being smitten with Nick the first time she saw him, her envy watching him bring me flowers, and her hesitation to approach him. I patiently flipped through, until the very last line: “If you agree, please send me a white lily.” My gaze halted. So it wasn’t a coincidence; that white lily on her bedside table came from him. The teacher at the front of the class was lecturing animatedly. I fought down my anger, slammed the letter onto Nick’s desk, and glared at him. The screech of my chair against the floor was too harsh. The teacher frowned and called my name: “Chloe Zinberg, what are you doing distracting yourself in class? You answer this question.” I stared at the formula on the blackboard, my mind blank, filled only with the contents of that letter. Nick whispered the answer beside me, his tone urgent and soothing. But I didn’t want to say a word. The teacher waited for a long time with no response, her face darkening completely: “Chloe Zinberg, what do you have besides a pretty face? Your grades aren’t as good as your sister’s, your personality is spoiled and bossy, you constantly make boys fawn over you, throwing the class into chaos!” I lowered my head, biting my lip, saying nothing. I didn’t care what people said about my personality. But I hated it most when people compared me to my sister. I didn’t look at the teacher, nor at Nick, and walked straight out of the classroom, my face cold. I had just washed my face in the girls’ restroom when I heard Nick’s footsteps behind me. His face was full of urgency, completely unlike his usual calm, accommodating self: “Chloe, don’t be mad.” “You know perfectly well I hate it when people compare me to her!” I looked up, glaring at Nick. “Nick Singer, don’t play dumb. You know that’s not what I’m angriest about.” He pursed his lips, a hint of grievance in his eyes, and explained softly: “The white lily was specifically for you. I didn’t know she wanted one too, and I certainly never intended to give her one.” I asked, “Then what about the white lily on her bedside table?” “She must have bought it herself, wanting you to misunderstand,” Nick sighed, his tone helpless. “Lots of guys in class like you, saying they’ll ask you out after graduation. I was afraid of losing you, so I wanted to make you a little jealous, to let you know I care.” His gaze was pleading: “I’ve already explained to the teacher; don’t take it to heart. I can wait, until you’re ready to accept me, after graduation, however long it takes.” Seeing the persistence in his eyes, remembering his unwavering presence for ten years. The fire in my heart died down a bit. I said, my face still cold, “Fine, after graduation.” Nick’s eyes immediately lit up, and his gentle smile returned. On the way home from school, he took a call, frowning, and said, “Something urgent came up. You go home first; I’ll find you when I’m done.” I nodded and walked on. After a few steps, I remembered my water bottle was in the classroom and turned back. Reaching the classroom door, I was about to push it open when I heard Maya Zinberg’s voice, with a hint of petulance: “Nick, are you really going to wait until after graduation?” I froze. 3 The classroom door was ajar, and Maya Zinberg’s voice drifted out, soft and docile. “Nick, the way Chloe walked out of class today, the teacher must be really upset. And you’re still going to explain for her, it’s too much work.” “Sometimes I wonder, you’ve waited for her all these years, offered her all your best, but she seems to… never really care.” “Chloe probably doesn’t understand how rare it is for someone to wait wholeheartedly, just like I’m waiting for you.” She looked at Nick with feigned concern: “I’m just worried you’re too tired. If Chloe keeps acting like this, won’t you be too wronged?” No tears, no playing the victim, no blatant insults. It made my chest tighten with disgust, yet I couldn’t pinpoint any direct malice. I shoved the classroom door open. The door slammed lightly against the wall with a muffled thud. Maya Zinberg turned around, showing no alarm, only a perfectly placed expression of surprise. Then she lowered her eyes, docile as a harmless kitten, completely devoid of the unease from just moments ago. My gaze landed on her. I raised an eyebrow: “Maya Zinberg, when you talk behind people’s backs, you’re much more agreeable than in front of Mom and Dad.” “Worried about him? It’s not your place to be. How I treat him is between us, and it’s not up to someone who’s barely spoken a few words to him to defend him.” Maya Zinberg’s eyes reddened, but she merely whispered in defense: “Chloe, I didn’t mean to. I’m just worried about Nick. I didn’t mean anything else. Please don’t overthink it.” Nick, standing nearby, frowned slightly, stepping forward. His tone carried a hint of exasperation towards me, and a gentle protection towards Maya Zinberg: “Chloe, don’t say that. Maya is just being kind, no ill intent. Why are you so aggressive?” That single sentence made my heart ache. The year I was born, Maya followed, premature and frail. The entire family’s focus instantly shifted. She lacked a “wood” element in her Chinese astrology, so they named her Maya, like an evergreen redwood, wishing her a life of joy, cherished in everyone’s palms. And I was named Chloe. To be cautious in words and deeds, always yielding. From childhood, if she wanted something of mine, I had to give it up. My only friend was also snatched away by her casual remark: “Chloe’s just like that; you’ll always feel wronged playing with her.” Everyone told me, “You’re the older sister; she’s delicate, you have to let her have her way.” I was forced into being sharp, moody, and difficult. Only then could I hold onto a tiny bit of what was mine. Everyone favored her, except Nick Singer. Since age seven, he ignored everyone’s criticisms, ignored me throwing his flowers in the trash, ignored my cold remarks, and always unconditionally stood by me. Seven-year-old Nick stubbornly told me: “I love how you protect yourself! We’re friends, and I’ll always stand by you!” “People who live by stealing from others like her aren’t worth your anger!” But just now, for Maya Zinberg, he frowned and offered a dismissive word of protection. No favoritism, no over-the-top defense, just a common plea for calm. Yet he knew exactly how desperate I had been forced to become. But he still chose to protect her. I took a deep breath, refusing to feel wronged. The next second, I raised my hand and slapped Nick. Nick’s head snapped to the side from the blow. He turned back, startled, his eyes filled with disbelief and a hint of hurt. I didn’t look at him, nor at the bewildered Maya Zinberg. Tears welled in my eyes, but I bit my lip hard, refusing to let them fall. The way to protect myself from feeling wronged wasn’t to cry. I turned and stormed out of the classroom without looking back. Leaving ten years of companionship, ten years of favoritism, all behind me. 4 I rushed back to the dorm. Having been estranged from my family for so long, I chose to live on campus. A moment later, my roommate cautiously approached, her voice tentative: “Chloe, there’s a guy waiting for you downstairs, it’s Nick Singer.” I was listening to music. Hearing her, I replied, “Got it, thanks.” I picked up my phone and immediately texted Nick: [Get lost, don’t be an eyesore here.] Message sent, I flipped my phone face down on the desk. My roommate stood there, hesitating for a long while, as if gathering great courage, then whispered: “Chloe, my brother… he’s liked you for a long time, since freshman year. You’re so pretty; isn’t it better not to focus on just one person, to look at others?” Her brother, Julian Evans. The only one in the whole school who dared to openly defy me, whom I’d verbally sparred with countless times, and who still wouldn’t back down—he liked me? This was even more ridiculous than Nick’s excuses. I didn’t respond. Outside the window, the sky slowly darkened. Evening study hall ended at nine; it was now eleven-fifty, a full three hours later. My phone vibrated countless times on the desk. Nick’s messages popped up one after another, but I didn’t glance at a single one. Ten minutes left until the dorm gates closed. If Nick didn’t leave soon, he’d be sleeping on the streets tonight. The screen suddenly lit up. The caller ID was Mr. Singer. Nick’s father, who lost his wife early and raised him alone, had always doted on me like his own daughter. Every time I went to his house, he’d find ways to make my favorite dishes, always saying it was his blessing that Nick stood by me. I sighed, finally answering, my voice softening slightly: “Mr. Singer.” “Chloe,” Mr. Singer’s voice was anxious, “Nick’s been standing downstairs for almost three hours. It’s so cold; could you please go down and see him? Please, as a favor to me.” “…I understand.” I grabbed my jacket and went downstairs. Nick stood under the streetlight, his voice terribly hoarse, filled with deep-seated hurt: “Chloe, you finally agreed to see me.” “This afternoon, I really just wanted to talk to Maya, to make it clear to her to stop overthinking things, to stop meddling in our business.” “I was protecting her not out of favoritism, but because I was afraid she’d be malicious, turn around and spread rumors in class or at home, ruin your reputation, and make things harder for you.” “I know you hit me because you felt wronged, because for so many years only I stood by you, and I disappointed you. I don’t blame you, not at all. I only feel for you…” As he spoke, his voice caught, and the tears in his eyes finally fell. The boy’s raw vulnerability was laid bare before me. He reached out, gently tugging my sleeve: “Chloe, could we, just hug? Just once. I’ll go straight home; I won’t bother you.” The figure who shielded me at seven, the white lily handed to me at seventeen, that question of “Are you hurt?” when the locket shattered… All my sharpness, in that moment, softened for an instant. I didn’t push him away. Nick immediately stepped forward, gently embracing me, holding me tightly, choking back sobs: “Don’t leave me… please.” After only a few seconds, I gently pushed him away: “Go back. The gates are closing.” Nick reluctantly let go of me, his eyes red, nodding, and ran towards the school gate, looking back three times. I turned to go back to the dorm. A tall figure suddenly emerged from the shadows nearby, blocking my path. It was Julian Evans. I raised an eyebrow, “Good dogs don’t block the road.” Julian sneered, retorting, “Nor do your dog-eyes recognize people.” He didn’t say anything else, just directly handed his phone to me. The screen was lit. A clear photo, taken just moments ago. Right at the corner downstairs of this dorm building, a blind spot I couldn’t see. Nick Singer was tightly embracing Maya Zinberg, bending down to kiss her deeply and wildly. Maya raised her hand, hooking his neck, tilting her head slightly, docile and dependent, showing no trace of the embarrassment of being rejected. 5 Back in my dorm, I blocked and deleted all of Nick Singer’s contact information. Graduation was only six months away. Even if I, Chloe Zinberg, was a scoundrel, or spoiled, I wouldn wouldn’t waste my remaining time on someone who was full of lies and played both sides. The moment dawn broke, I got ready and walked into the academic building as usual. But today, it felt like I was back a few years ago. In the hallway, many eyes were on me, whispering: “That’s her, Chloe Zinberg. I heard she strung Nick Singer along for ten years, treating him like a toy, and now she still wants to hold onto him, even trying to steal her own sister’s boyfriend.” “Not just that, someone saw her hugging Nick Singer downstairs the dorm yesterday, clinging to him.” “I always disliked her; she uses her looks to mess with guys. I heard she used to always steal her sister’s things. So disgusting, how is someone like her not expelled yet…” And rumors about my promiscuous private life, claiming I’d slept with countless people. Every word was too vile to hear. Just like before. My freshman year, Maya Zinberg developed a crush on a boy in class. The boy casually complimented me, saying, “You’re so pretty.” She immediately turned around and cried to our family and classmates, claiming I deliberately flirted, that I used my looks to intentionally steal her things. My family, without questioning, pointed fingers at me, calling me thoughtless, selfish, and malicious. I fought with the people who spread rumors about me, hitting one until he passed out, my eyes red with fury. The school threatened to suspend me, and my family, swayed by Maya, didn’t care. I was pushed to the rooftop, wanting nothing more than to jump and end it all. It was Nick Singer who rushed up like a madman, tightly hugging my waist, pulling me back. He knelt on the ground, trembling all over, his eyes red, screaming: “Chloe Zinberg, don’t you dare die! I believe you, I’ll always believe you! Everyone else can doubt you, but I believe! Anyone who dares to say a bad word about you, I’ll fight them to the death!” He literally took a suspension for me, and he tried to explain to my classmates and repair my relationships. But what about now? Nick Singer stood at the classroom door, for the first time openly standing beside Maya Zinberg. Julian Evans walked past, slowly remarking: “Are you waiting for Nick Singer to stand up like before and say, ‘She’s not like that’?” I said nothing, just walked up to Nick Singer, my gaze calm: “Nick Singer, I’m just going to ask you one question.” “Were you clinging to me while you already had a girlfriend, or not?” A flicker of struggle crossed Nick Singer’s eyes. The girl he had once gambled his entire youth believing in stood before him, tears in her eyes. But in the end, he only said: “No.” “You were clinging to me. Maya has nothing to do with it.” The entire class erupted in gasps.
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