Not Anymore

The Memories

Since his first day on campus, Chris has harbored a crush on Irene, the campus belle—a crush that would destroy him.

Chris had led a somewhat average life until the day he met her. Born and raised in a modest town, he'd clawed his way to a top university on scholarship alone. He thought he'd made it. He thought the hard part was over.

He had no idea everything was about to shift—and not in the way he'd dreamed. On his first day on campus, he bumped into a woman who would change everything.

From the moment he saw Irene, he was hooked like an addict to a drug. The sight of her smile, the way she moved through crowds—it all captivated him completely.

He brought her flowers, carefully selected from the campus gardens. She accepted them without looking at his face. He cooked her meals, staying up until 3 AM to perfect recipes he'd learned from his mother. She ate them while texting someone else. He even completed her homework and projects, sacrificing his own sleep, his own grades slipping as hers climbed. But she had no eyes for him—not once, not ever. To Irene, Chris was simply invisible, a convenience that followed her around campus with hopeful eyes and trembling hands she never bothered to hold.

Every gift he gave was a humiliation he swallowed. Every favor she asked was another piece of his dignity he surrendered.

She, on the other hand, had set her sights on a fine young man of equal status—someone who matched her world of privilege and refinement. Someone who would never have to work as a waiter to survive.

Marlin Ko. A wealthy heir from the prestigious Ko family, Irene's childhood sweetheart. The boy who had grown up in the mansion next to hers, who had shared her summers and understood her world in ways Chris never could—would never be allowed to.

He had left the country to study abroad, and she waited for him. Five long years passed, each one marked by her patient devotion. Now he was back, returned to claim what he believed was rightfully his. What had always been his.

But after all this time, she hadn't stayed single and waiting. She had kept a second choice, a backup plan—the lovesick puppy Chris Eaton, always there, always willing, always hoping. A placeholder. A fool who didn't know he was being used.

Chris recalls that fateful evening with painful clarity, each detail etched into his memory.

One day, just before his graduation, he had been walking back to campus after a long shift at a nearby restaurant where he worked as a waiter. The evening air was cool, and his feet ached from hours of standing. His pockets held barely enough money for next week's meals, but he trudged forward, thinking of the degree that would soon change his life.

As he approached the crosswalk, a figure caught his attention—a woman walking directly into traffic, her steps zombie-like, as if she had lost all will to live. Her movements were mechanical, detached, suicidal.

She clutched a piece of paper, soaked and damp from tears that continued to stream down her face. A letter. Something that had broken her.

He called out to her, his voice urgent, desperate, but she wouldn't hear him. She seemed trapped in her own world of grief, oblivious to the semi-truck barreling toward her at sixty miles per hour.

Seeing no other option—knowing she had seconds to live—his instincts overrode his exhausted body. He lurched forward like a tiger, every muscle propelled by pure adrenaline and the terrible certainty that if he didn't move now, she would die.

He jumped toward her and pulled her away, the effort sending them both tumbling and rolling on the tarmac as the speeding truck hurtled past, missing her head by mere inches. The rush of wind from the vehicle's passage whipped at their clothes. The driver's horn blared. The smell of burning rubber filled the air.

One second slower and she would have been crushed.

They rolled across the rough pavement while he used his body to shield her from harm, absorbing the impact of the asphalt against his skin. Finally, they came to a stop, and their eyes met.

Chris was dumbfounded to realize the person he was looking at. His breath caught in his throat, and time seemed to freeze.

There on the dirty old tarmac lay an all-too-familiar face, now inches from his own.

It was her. Irene, the woman he had admired from afar all this time. The girl who haunted his dreams and made his heart race whenever she passed him in the hallway.

He felt like he couldn't even breathe, let alone say anything. Words died in his throat before they could form.

His heartbeat quickened as his eyes locked with hers, drinking in every detail of her face—the tears still wet on her cheeks, the vulnerability in her expression, the way her lips parted slightly in shock.

Those beautiful eyes felt as if they were calling out to him, and for a moment there, he was entranced, lost in a world where only the two of them existed.

Irene stared back at him with something else in her gaze, something... unknown. An emotion he couldn't quite name flickered across her features—gratitude, perhaps, or recognition, or something deeper still.

She waited for him to say something, her chest rising and falling with each breath. But after seeing that he surely wouldn't be able to form words, she smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached her tear-stained eyes.

A loud honk jolted him from his reverie, shattering the intimate bubble that had formed around them.

"I... I... I am sorry," he stammered as he patted himself down, a harsh curse from a motorist bringing him crashing back to reality. His face flushed, especially when he noticed the smile on the woman's face and realized their compromising position.

It was then that he realized how injured he was, the adrenaline beginning to fade and leaving only pain in its wake.

His shoulder ached with a sharp, unmistakable throb that radiated through his body. The joint was dislocated, a grim reminder of the fall he had taken to protect her. His shirt, once a crisp white, was now torn in various spots, stained with dark splotches of dried blood that had seeped through the fabric. With great effort, he lifted his hand and sank onto the ground, bracing himself to assist his weary body back to its feet. As he did so, a jolt of agony shot through his elbow, causing him to wince involuntarily. He glanced down and noticed a dried trail of blood snaking its way down his hand, stark against his pale skin.

Each movement felt like it took all of his strength; the pain was overwhelming, threatening to drag him back down. His knee was bruised, swollen, and bore a small wound where he had scraped it against the rough tarmac. Chris took a moment to catch his breath, the effort making his heart race and his vision blur at the edges. He could feel the heat rising in his face, a flustered flush that was a mix of exertion, anguish, and embarrassment. As he steadied himself, he fought through the haze of agony, determined not to let it break his spirit. He couldn't afford to give in, not now.

Not in front of the girl he had always liked. Not when she was finally looking at him, really seeing him for the first time.

He helped her up, extending his good arm despite the screaming protest from his injured shoulder. As soon as she was on her feet, she thanked him earnestly, her voice soft but sincere. She asked if there was any way she could help him as a gesture of gratitude, her eyes searching his face with genuine concern.

The i***t, being as shy as always, hesitated. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, unable to form a coherent response.

That's when she suggested something: dinner. A simple meal, she said, to properly thank him for saving her life.

He agreed without hesitation, the word tumbling from his lips before his brain could catch up. His heart soared despite the anguish coursing through his body.

It was a long night, and the two ate, drank, and laughed. The restaurant she chose was modest but warm, with soft lighting that made her eyes sparkle. For the first time, Chris saw her not as an untouchable goddess but as a real person with fears and flaws. But he never dared to voice his feelings to her, the words always dying on his tongue, until...

Her sobs came in shuddering gasps, the kind that seemed to echo the weight of an unseen burden. Each cry was muffled but raw, a heartbreaking sound that cut through the air like a jagged knife, silencing the ambient noise of the restaurant around them. Her face was a portrait of anguish; tears streamed down her cheeks, glistening like dewdrops in the fading light. Her eyes, usually vibrant and full of life, now shimmered with sorrow, holding a depth of suffering that Chris could hardly comprehend. It was as if all the grief she'd been holding back had finally broken through her carefully constructed walls.

Chris was stunned. Just minutes before, they had been sharing laughter over dinner, their banter light and easy, discussing everything from favorite books to childhood memories. Now she was crumpled before him, as if a part of her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces. He felt a pang of confusion and helplessness wash over him—he had no idea what had caused this sudden shift in her demeanor. Had he said something wrong? Had a memory surfaced unbidden?

"What's wrong?" The question hung in the air between them, fragile and uncertain, his voice faltering.

She lifted her head slowly, those beautiful teary eyes locking onto his, and in that moment, Chris felt something profound stir within him. Her anguish was palpable, an invisible thread that pulled at his heart, making it ache in tandem with hers. He wanted desperately to take that suffering away, to shoulder it himself if it meant she could smile again.

"Please..." he urged, his voice strained as he tried to find the right words to coax her distress out into the open, to give it voice so it might lose some of its power. But she didn't reply with words.

Instead, she just whispered his name softly—"Chris"—a fragile sound filled with a yearning that enveloped him. Then she leaned against his chest, seeking refuge in his presence. In that instant of vulnerability, Chris wrapped his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her sorrow seep into him. It was as if he could absorb her anguish, if only to share the weight of it, to assure her she wasn't alone in her suffering.

Chris hesitated for a moment, caught in the gravity of her sorrow. He felt a swirl of uncertainty in his stomach, a nervous flutter that made his hands tremble. Should he comfort her? Would she welcome his touch? What if he made things worse? As she leaned against him, her vulnerability stirred something deep within him—a mix of longing, fear, and a fierce protective instinct he'd never felt before. Finally, propelled by an instinctive desire to support her, he slowly reached out, his hands trembling slightly.

As his fingers grazed her shoulder, he was struck by the warmth of her skin, soft and delicate, like silk against his calloused palms—palms roughened by years of restaurant work and manual labor. His heart quickened, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum as he gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. The touch felt electric, a connection that bridged the chasm of her distress and his confusion, creating something new and fragile between them.

Her skin was warm, radiating a comforting heat that wrapped around him, mingling with the cool air of the restaurant. It felt fragile, and yet it held an unyielding strength—something that both comforted and frightened him. He could feel the slight tremors of her body against his, her sobs causing her to shudder, and without thinking, he tightened his hold, creating a cocoon of safety around them both.

In that moment, as her tears soaked into his shirt—the same shirt stained with his own blood from saving her—he breathed in her scent, a mix of something floral and sweet, which only heightened his sense of urgency to protect her. The world around them faded away; the other diners, the clinking of silverware, the soft music playing in the background—all of it dissolved into nothingness. It was just him and her, and the weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air between them.

His breath came faster, responding to the profound intimacy of the moment, as he silently vowed to be there for her, to stand by her side as she navigated through the storm that had consumed her. Whatever had broken her heart tonight, whatever anguish she carried, he would help her bear it. Even if she never loved him back, even if he remained forever in Marlin Ko's shadow, he would be here for her.

Because that's what love was, he told himself. Being present in someone's darkest moment, offering comfort without expectation, and holding them while they fell apart.

He had no idea that this moment—this single act of kindness—would become the weapon she would use to destroy him.

Or that the letter clutched in her hand, now pressed between their bodies, bore Marlin Ko's name.