Chapter 3

The day we were supposed to leave for abroad, I messed up.

He waited until the very last flight, but I never showed up at the airport.

He called countless times.

I didn't answer a single one.

Eventually, only his desperate texts were left. [Silly girl, if you don't want to go abroad, I won't force you. Just please, pick up the phone once. Just say you'll wait for me. Once I finish, I swear I'll come back to find you.]

The next morning, I was covered in soot, leaning against the door of the operating room, asleep.

Until someone gently tapped my shoulder. "We found your phone at the fire scene."

Someone bent down and placed the phone beside me.

I stared at it but had no courage to open it.

A police officer walked past, then stopped. "Your boyfriend seems to have gone abroad. We tried turning it on and saw his last message."

The surgery wasn't even over.

I curled my knees, burying my face in them.

My eyes burned.

Tears fell.

And finally, the tears turned into blood.

A nurse screamed and pulled me away. "Oh my, your eyes—"

Seven years had changed so much.

I had dreamed of working in a research institute.

But because of the fire, my eyes were badly damaged. My vision was so impaired that I couldn't do research at all.

Two years later, Andrew hadn't come back.

I met his mother once.

She handed me a few photos of Andrew. In every single one, there was a girl by his side.

He smiled freely—bright, tall, radiant—the same way he had the first time I saw him, so dazzling yet utterly arrogant.

I left with those photos in my hands.

But life didn't give me much time to grieve.

The night Andrew left, my mom set a fire at home while holding my little brother.

I rushed back, charging into the flames.

By then, my mom's face was already unrecognizable, burned beyond recognition.

Clutched in her arms was Ethan—just one year old—his back and one arm completely burned.

I needed money to treat him, to raise him, and to send him to school.

That day, someone slammed into me on the street. "Move."

I heard a sharp crack.

My glasses hit the pavement and shattered under a stranger's heel.

I panicked and reached out, trying to grab him, but everything in front of me was a blur.

By the time I blinked, he was already gone.

I bent down, picked up what was left of my glasses.

My hands were trembling.

The sky had already gone gray, and without my glasses, even walking was hard.

A few more bumps and stumbles later, I had no idea how many people I ran into that night until I collided with someone again.

This person didn't curse. He just stood there quietly, watching me.

"Sir, excuse me," I said softly. "Could you take me to the nearest optical shop? My glasses are broken. I need to get a new pair."

It was already dark.

No matter how hard I squinted, I couldn't make out his face.

But he didn't answer—and he didn't move either.

"Sorry," I murmured, bowing my head and fumbling to leave.

But then a voice behind me made my whole body freeze. "Sophia, what the hell are you doing? Crashing into me on purpose?"

My steps halted midair.

It was Andrew.

He gave a cold snort. "Gotta say, you play blind pretty well. If you were an actress, I'd give you an award.

"Too bad you don't have the guts. If you're trying to seduce me, you should at least have the nerve to feel me up a little. Who knows, maybe I'd even start to like you again."

My fists clenched so tightly that my nails bit into my palm.

I felt a sharp, bitter ache in my chest, as if blood was quietly dripping from my heart.

Even though I couldn't see his face clearly, I turned toward his voice.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I didn't mean to bump into you."

And then I walked away.

Seven years had passed.

And now, in his eyes, I was nothing but a scheming liar—a woman he could only look at with disgust.

Even blind, I could hear the anger in his voice from being bumped into practically radiate off him.

The farther I walked, the darker it got.

Something small—maybe a stray dog—brushed past my legs, and I tripped hard.

Cold liquid trickled down my forehead.

I was just trying to get back on my feet.

But before I could stand, a rough hand yanked me up. "Sophia, are you fucking kidding me? Still putting on a show? What, you planning to die just so I'll look at you again?"

But the instant Andrew hauled me to my feet, his eyes finally landed on the blood running down my forehead.

He froze, staring at me for a few seconds like he'd just been slapped—totally shaken. "You—"

I touched my forehead. My hand came away red.

"I'm fine," I whispered, pulling away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Don't come closer. You'll stain your clothes."

I staggered back, pressing a hand to my head.

I knew I looked pathetic. And then I ran—disappearing into the dark.

He roared, "Take one more step, I dare you. Sophia, damn it, stop running. There's a car—

"Sophia, there's a car—stop."