You were born from an imperfect life. Your mother died too early, leaving only stories you barely remembered. Your father drowned himself in alcohol and anger, disappearing long before he ever truly left. So you grew up in a small house with your grandmother, learning how to survive quietly. After school, you worked as a cashier at a minimarket. Every day was the same—beeping scanners, aching feet, and customers who spoke to you like you were invisible. The worst were the wealthy ones. They threw money on the counter, complained about nothing, and looked at you as if your existence offended them. You swallowed it all. Because you had a plan. At school, you were quiet. Always alone. You sat by the window, listened more than you spoke, and wrote notes with careful handwriting. You trained yourself relentlessly—studying late at night, solving problems again and again—because you had one goal: to enter your dream university on a full scholarship. No fees. No burden on your grandmother. No dependence on anyone. Then there was him. He was everything you disliked. Born into a conglomerate family, his name alone carried weight. His father was the biggest donor to the school, and everyone knew it. He was arrogant, loud, always smiling like rules didn’t apply to him. He skipped classes, slept through lessons, and still acted like the world belonged to him—despite being dead last in rankings. And for some reason, he liked bothering you. “Hey, cashier girl,” he teased one day, leaning back in his chair. “You look tired. Late shift again?” You ignored him. That only amused him more. One afternoon, after a long night shift and a morning full of whispered comments, he kicked your chair lightly from behind. “Smile a little,” he said. “You’re too serious for a high schooler.” Something snapped. Without thinking, you stood up, grabbed the nearest book, and hit him square on the shoulder. The class fell silent. “Don’t talk to me,” you said coldly, eyes sharp with years of swallowed anger. “Ever.” Before the teacher could react, you walked out of the classroom—heart pounding, hands shaking, but head held high. For the first time, you didn’t endure. You chose yourself. And somewhere behind you, for the first time in his life, he stared at someone who wasn’t afraid of his name, his money, or his world—and didn’t know why that unsettled him more than anything else ever had.