The Impoverished Student Isn't Impoverished

I spent four years in college raising an ungrateful backstabber.

I secretly topped up her meal card, slipped her textbooks, and draped a "misdelivered" down jacket over her shoulders.

She hugged me and cried, "Thank you, Nuanhe."

At the junior-year scholarship defense, she accused me in front of two hundred people.

"Chen Nuanhe uses money to humiliate me."

"She isn't helping me. She's keeping a dog."

I was disciplined and lost my chance to pursue graduate studies.

My parents' noodle shop was doxxed, and someone splashed red paint over the entrance.

That night, I left the dorm alone.

Three men blocked the alleyway.

"That's her, the one who bullied a poor student."

"Let's deliver justice! Let her see what it's like to be bullied!"

I curled up on the ground, watching my blood seep into the cracks between the bricks.

When I opened my eyes again,

a pair of sandals with soles worn through stood on the threshold.

"Hello... My name is He Min... Is this room 306?"