Love at Duskfall

Sell Myself

Ten minutes later, Sophia understood the whole story.

Ava was from an ordinary family, but her spending far exceeded what an ordinary family could afford. However, she didn’t know where all the money went or what it was spent on. This was something Sophia could relate to—she often wondered why money always seemed to disappear so quickly.

The year Ava spent the most was when her father lost his job and stayed at home watching TV. One day, out of boredom, he went through her clothes and found a long bill in her pocket, almost fainting with rage. Ava was kicked out of the house as a result. Though her father later took her back in, she never dared to tell her family about her true expenses.

She knew that overspending wasn’t good, but she couldn’t stop her ever-growing shopping desires. There were shopping ads everywhere on TV and the streets. More and more rich girls came to the restaurant to spend time, and many of her colleagues had affairs with wealthy men—by day, they were young and beautiful waitresses, but by night, they wore glittering short skirts, carried leather bags, and walked arm-in-arm with rich men.

After staying in this environment for a long time, she began to lose track of right and wrong--so many people were doing it, even the bad ones had so many people to do it with. So, she hooked up with a rich man. She didn’t expect to become his mistress, just wanted to fill the gap in her family’s finances, to ease her unemployed father’s burden.

She thought this way, but after really hooking up with the rich man, her shopping desire grew even more. Now, she not only had to compare with the girls in the restaurant, but also with the women besides the rich men.

Unknowingly, her debts began to pile up. A few days ago, a threatening phone call even reached her home. Fortunately, she answered the phone herself; otherwise, she wouldn’t know how to explain it to her father.

In this desperate situation, the rich man she was with disappeared. She had no choice but to find Mrs. Smith’s address and hope to find a new rich man to get through the difficulty. If she hadn’t met Sophia that day, after being violated by the thugs, she might have chosen to commit suicide.

Sophia listened to her grievances without much emotional response—she had heard too many stories of clients disappearing and prostitutes being left helpless. It was hard to feel moved.

She secretly thought, if one day she found herself in Ava’s position, would she also find a rich man to get through?

She pondered for a moment with her small, narrow mind and concluded:" I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it! It’s an escape route after all.

Sophia didn’t expect to use that escape route so soon.

When Ava told her past, Sophia only thought she was incredibly foolish—how could she compare herself to others when she knew she had no money? It wasn’t until she officially started working that she realized there was no way to avoid comparing.

The surrounding girls wore expensive French lipstick, and she couldn’t even take out her cheap plastic-wrapped lipstick from her pocket. Their curly hair shimmered with shine and elasticity, clearly the result of frequent visits to high-end beauty salons.

Sophia rolled her eyes secretly, feeling these people were enjoying services unworthy of their identity, but when it came time for her to make a choice, her true desire was to become one of them.

She despised their shallow indulgence but couldn’t help wanting to get closer to that dazzling, superficial world. Ava probably fell into this same trap, and that’s why she chose to fall.

Sophia returned to the apartment, kicked off her high heels, and walked barefoot to the place where her mother used to hide money. She reached in—and felt nothing.

She blinked in confusion and tried again, several times. Still, nothing.

It couldn’t have been stolen. She lived in a den of thieves, had grown up among them—no one knew better than her how to guard against theft.

That left only one possibility.

She had spent it all.

But what?

She didn’t know. Truly, she didn’t.

She tried hard to recall what she had bought over the past few days, but her mind was a blank. It didn’t seem like much. Then again—at first, she had picked up a few trinkets: earrings, hair clips, false lashes… Each item cost just a few dollars, nothing she couldn’t afford. So she bought a bunch of them.

Later, she passed a magazine stand. On the cover was a model in a white bikini, her gaze sultry, lips painted a bright pink and slightly parted to reveal perfect teeth. Men lingered in front of that magazine, reluctant to leave. She looked down on them for being so easily aroused—yet found herself walking into a department store and buying a tube of metallic-pink lipstick.

The moment the lipstick was in her hand, a pang of regret flickered through her—but it was quickly smothered by a swelling sense of satisfaction.

And so it went. She continued buying makeup—things she didn’t need, without really noticing. Because it wasn’t one big purchase, she didn’t feel guilty. She didn’t even feel like she was being wasteful.

Not until she got home and reached for the money—only to find it was all gone.

She had a job now, sure—but payday was still a while away. And unlike other restaurants, this one didn’t offer meals or housing for employees. With no money left, even eating became a problem.

The thought sent a chill down her spine.

For the first time, she truly realized how terrifying her mother’s absence was.

She had no more family. No safe harbor. From now on, she would face every storm alone.

Sophia got up and staggered to the bathroom, hoping to splash some water on her face and clear her mind. But when she turned on the faucet and watched the water gush out, her first thought was:

Would she have to pay for this now, too?

How does one pay the water bill?

Where?

How much?

It was only then that she truly understood how much her mother had shielded her from.

With silence and hardship, her mother had woven a warm cocoon, sheltering her from all the filth and darkness outside. She never complained, never spoke of love, but quietly fed her the nutrients she needed to survive.

Sophia had, in fact, survived—but knew nothing of how survival actually worked.

Now that the one who sustained her had disappeared, she was like a larva, freshly emerged from its cocoon, stepping straight into a swamp of darkness without the faintest clue what to do.

She shut off the water, slowly, then wiped her damp cheeks with a towel and leaned toward the mirror, studying her face.

Without her drawn-on brows, mascara, or lipstick, her face looked even cleaner. Her skin was as smooth as honey, glowing with a natural blush. Her lips, though bare, were a fresh rose pink. But that only made her unhappy—because what was in style now was bright or pale pinks, and her natural color looked terribly outdated in comparison.

Her eyebrows and hair were unusually thick. She had to pluck her brows every two days, or they’d grow like wild grass, creeping toward her hairline. Her thick hair was both a source of pride and a constant annoyance—coarse and unruly, each strand brimming with life. Brushing it took ten minutes every day, and she often missed the bus because of it.

She knew that a beautiful face like hers, without the nourishment of money, would fade fast.

She remembered a girl her mother once mentioned—an escort, not even twenty years old. “Got knocked up in high school,” her mother had said. “Girls these days are done for. Some of them give birth and then go right back to class! Can you believe that? Don’t you dare turn out like that. You’re going to college.”

Then she stubbed out her cigarette, opened the door, and let the girl in.

That was the first time Sophia saw a “real” call-girl. Before that, she’d imagined they were all like her mother—romantic figures who occasionally ran off with a client, living a kind of reckless dream. But this girl was pale, her cheeks mottled with freckles, her lips chapped and peeling. It was clear she hadn’t taken care of herself in a long time.

Sophia didn’t truly pity her—she didn’t yet understand what it meant for a teenager to have a child. But she did feel sorry for the girl’s inability to make herself look decent.

She thought:

If I ever get that bloated, that disheveled, that ugly—

I’d rather die.

And with that, Sophia looked at her youthful reflection in the mirror, and made a decision.

The next day, she went straight to Ava and asked bluntly, “How did you meet a rich man?”

Ava’s face turned crimson. She thought Sophia was mocking her and stammered, unable to respond.

But then Sophia added, “Can you introduce me to one?”

Ava: “…”

Flushed and flustered, Ava looked at Sophia’s pure, beautiful face. She wanted to warn her off this path, but the words wouldn’t come. She wasn’t eloquent. And besides, every fallen woman secretly wishes for someone to fall with her.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

This time, it was Ava who led Sophia to Mrs. Smith’s apartment.

The moment Sophia stepped inside, she felt like she’d wandered into the heart of a monster from a horror film. The walls were a suffocating shade of dusty pink, the carpet a dull red, and the air thick with the cloying scent of face powder—so strong it reminded her of rotting garbage on a summer street corner.

A woman descended from the second floor, glanced at her, then sat down on the sofa and began painting her toenails. She wore a strappy gown, her shoulders rounded, her chest full, her entire body reeking of alcohol and sweat. She seemed unaware of her own stench, focused solely on her nails.

Mrs. Smith’s room was at the very back.

As Sophia approached it, an overwhelming urge to run overtook her.

She finally realized: she was stepping onto a path with no return.

Her skin broke out in goosebumps. Her legs trembled. Her back was slick with sweat.

Every sense sharpened.

Like a fawn straying into a predator’s den, she caught the stench of rot clinging to the building, saw the swollen faces and dark circles of the women who lived there.

She began to understand:

Selling herself wouldn’t solve anything.

But what else could she do?

She couldn’t think of an alternative.

Maybe her head was just too small, too delicate—a head made for camera flashes and magazine covers, not for thinking.

So, she couldn’t come up with anything.

And so, she stepped into Mrs. Smith’s room.

To Sophia’s relief, Mrs. Smith didn’t look as fierce as she’d imagined—she actually seemed rather cordial. Her hair was curled just above the ears, eyeliner thick, lips full, and everything about her exuded one obsession: money. Around her, there were only two topics worth discussing—the body and money.

Mrs. Smith glanced at Sophia with a flicker of surprise. “Mary?”