Chapter 3

I gazed at the man standing before me, his kind features softening in the faint light. Tears began to form in my eyes, blurring my vision and threatening to cascade down my face. For reasons I couldn't explain, my chest constricted as if all the oxygen had vanished from the room. The pain was overwhelming.

Daniel's expression shifted to alarm when he noticed my tears. He clumsily attempted to wipe them away, his movements awkward and inexperienced. "What's wrong? Has someone hurt you? Just give me a name, and I'll deal with them!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with worry and determination.

Since we were young, Daniel had been known as the neighborhood troublemaker. He was unruly and mischievous, constantly finding himself in hot water, with his mother frequently chasing after him, reprimanding or even striking him. I, on the other hand, had always been the delicate one. Having arrived in this world too soon, I grew up under my parents' constant surveillance. They refused to let me join the other children outside. I could only observe from my window seat, watching them play and laugh, yearning to be part of their world.

Whenever Daniel spotted me at the window while he played tag with the other kids, he'd sneak over and slip me some sweets. With a playful grin, he'd pinch my chubby cheeks and quietly ask, "When will you be able to come out and play with me?"

As time passed, my health improved, and by the time we reached middle school, my parents finally allowed me to venture outdoors. Daniel was ecstatic—he treated me as if I were fragile china. "Lenore," he'd say with utmost seriousness, "if anyone dares to bother you, just mention my name. They won't dare lay a finger on you."

From that point on, I was never alone. Daniel was my constant companion, accompanying me wherever I wished to go. If someone even looked at me wrong, he'd appear like a protective force, ready to defend me. He became my sanctuary, my unwavering guardian.

When we began college, it felt natural for our relationship to evolve into a romantic one. He became even more attentive, lavishing me with a love so tender and devoted that I believed it would last forever.

Then Grace came into our lives.

She embodied everything I wasn't—smart, attractive, and self-assured. She had a magnetic presence that drew people to her. She and Daniel shared the same major, forming a bond I struggled to comprehend. Initially, Daniel tried to include me, explaining their technical discussions so I wouldn't feel excluded. But eventually, his patience wore thin.

"You wouldn't understand anyway," he said dismissively one day. "Just go do something else."

From that moment, their conversations deepened, covering everything from class topics to late-night online chats. They became inseparable, their connection undeniable. Meanwhile, the bond between Daniel and me began to fray. We grew increasingly distant, our interactions becoming less frequent, reduced to mere pleasantries and goodnight messages.

My friends attempted to warn me, urging me to be cautious of their growing closeness, but I dismissed their concerns. I convinced myself that even in a relationship, people deserved their privacy. I had faith in him—in us.

But I soon learned that faith could be a harsh teacher.