In her junior year, she would be drugged by my brother, suffer severe toxicity, and be sent abroad for treatment.
Sadly, her medical flight would crash, leaving no survivors.
But in this life, I wouldn't get entangled with her, and she wouldn't die.
My life narrowed down to two things: studying and working.
Yet, for some reason, I kept running into her.
My seat in the study hall was always surrounded by her clique.
Whenever she saw me return, she would lift her chin and frown, glaring at me with distaste.
The cheap food I left on my desk to stave off hunger would vanish.
She would sneer, "What garbage are you eating? I don't like the smell."
My classmates cautiously comforted me, mentioning that Caroline Sawyer had been asking about my background, as if she wanted to teach me a lesson.
I stopped going to the study hall. I took the longest, most obscure routes to class to avoid them.
But even when I worked at the cafeteria, I couldn't escape.
Seeing me behind the counter, her friends would jeer, insisting that I be the one to serve them.
Then they would refuse to order, making me stand there like a statue while they chatted.
Eventually, the manager asked if I had offended them.