Puberty has always been regarded as one of the most difficult stages to endure. Hormones, volatile moods, and the slow, often painful discovery of one’s own identity—these were the elements that crowned the experience.

Jiaoqiu was not ignorant of such matters. She had been exposed to everything—drugs, sexual education, romantic relationships, even casual encounters. Her mother had made sure she was prepared for the world. At least, that was how it seemed. But in Jiaoqiu’s eyes, none of it had been taught in the way it should have been.

It is often said that the first person a child learns to love is their mother—the woman who sacrifices her body, her health, her peace, for the sake of bringing life into the world. The woman who offers her heart without hesitation, who endures, who gives, who provides—even if it means having nothing left for herself.

But Jiaoqiu never learned that kind of love.

She was never taught how to be loved by her mother. Jiaoqiu was the cousin who received a small, almost forgettable gift at Christmas, surrounded by others whose hands overflowed with presents. She was the girl who wore old clothes to school, the one who walked home alone while other families held their daughters’ hands.

And years passed, yet nothing truly changed.

Jiaoqiu remained that same lonely girl—gifted, yes, undeniably so—but only finding worth in the one thing she excelled at. It was the only space where she could exist without judgment, the only moment her mother’s presence did not weigh on her thoughts.

The only moment she felt alive—within the quiet, relentless burn of her own mind.