Fortunately, not long after, I became pregnant.
Then one day, by pure chance, I fell down the stairs. As searing pain gripped my lower abdomen, and I felt myself slipping closer to death, I saw Harold standing nearby—cold, distant, and unmoved.
He hadn’t pushed me, but he was there, watching. If he had just reached out—if he’d even made the slightest effort to help—I could have caught my balance, grabbed the railing, and avoided the fall.
But he didn’t.
At that moment, my heart died for him.
I once thought that Harold and I would continue like this, living out our days in a twisted coexistence, hating each other until old age finally took us.
But that was clearly impossible.
I took a deep breath, resigning myself.
Forget it. Who cares about the recklessness of youth or the chaos it brings?
Harold and I can barely bring up the fact that we grew up together. It’s not like we were childhood sweethearts, just classmates—spending most of our days in the same room. From his seat, Harold would often find himself staring at a man who just wanted to live quietly. One day, as he watched, Harold slowly walked over to that man.