I was painfully average. Gervase, the boy next door, was the kind of genius that comes along once in a generation. My entire life, I had struggled to breathe in the thin air left in the wake of his brilliance. To claw my way into a top-tier university, I waged a nightly war against textbooks, my eyes perpetually bloodshot. And him? He was busy skipping class to romance the most popular girl in school, yet the best universities were still fighting to offer him a spot. I chained myself to the library, a tireless monk in pursuit of a coveted spot in the graduate program, only to miss it by a single, heart-breaking point. Meanwhile, he’d casually flip through his notes the night before an exam and effortlessly snag the top rank in his department. Whenever my parents reached the peak of their disappointment with me, they’d twist my ear and spit the words I came to dread: “For God’s sake, just look at Gervase! How can one person be so brilliant, and another… so useless?” My early life was a long, suffocating eclipse, completely blacked out by Gervase’s shadow. The moment I graduated, I fled my hometown like a bird breaking free from its cage. For three whole years, no matter how hysterical my parents got on the phone, I never once set foot on the path back home. On New Year’s Eve of the fourth year, I was heading back to my small apartment, plastic bags cutting into my wrists, ready to spend another holiday alone. But there, leaning against my door, was the familiar, infuriating silhouette of Gervase. He looked thinner, his frame casting a long shadow in the hallway light. His eyes found mine. “Why aren’t you home?” he asked, his voice soft. A storm of emotions churned inside me, but I said nothing. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, his gaze darkening for a second. “You should go back,” he continued. “Your parents miss you. And… so do I.” My entire life, I had existed in Gervase’s orbit. He was a star, destined to burn bright wherever he went. He’d breezed through the best high school, skipped a grade, and had elite universities begging for him. Even when he ditched class for a girl, teachers would just chuckle and call him ‘a character.’ And me? I was the good girl. I kept my hair brutally short, sacrificed countless nights to my studies, and fought with every ounce of my being just to scrape by the entrance requirements for a decent university. By the time I started college, Gervase was already a junior. He was already attending high-profile conferences with his professors; I’d even catch glimpses of him on TV, looking confident and impossibly brilliant. Each time, it was a cue for my parents’ tirade. “How can you be so different from Gervase?” “I’ve never lost to his father at anything, but then I had you. You’re my one great shame.” “You make it so I can’t even look his mother in the eye.” Those words were daggers, and they had been piercing my heart for eighteen years. The day I left for college, I packed my bags in silence, hauled my heavy suitcase to the station, and boarded the train without a single look back. After that, news of Gervase always reached me through the filter of my parents’ scolding. I knew which famous mentors were vying for him, how many groundbreaking papers he’d published, and even that he’d aced his finals after a single night of casual reading. When I’d hear these things, I’d be hunched over a textbook in the library, its pages a dense forest of my desperate notes. I’d let out a bitter laugh, silence my phone, and flip it face down, trying to drown myself in the ocean of knowledge, to numb the ache. In my senior year, fate played another one of its cruel jokes. I missed securing my spot in the graduate program by one person. That night, my mother’s sanity finally snapped. She screamed at me over the phone for what felt like an eternity. When I hung up, she sent a torrent of venomous voicemails. “How did I give birth to such a moron! You’re worthless! My life is a tragedy because of you!” Listening to her wails, a final chill settled deep in my bones. After that night, I blocked her number, found a job in a city a thousand miles from home, and for three years, I never went back. Not even for the holidays. Every New Year’s Eve, I’d lock myself in my apartment, put on a classic movie, and sip a Coke, wondering if the countdown special on TV would be any better this year. My only contact with my parents was the monthly bank transfer I sent them. Nothing more. This year was no different. Or so I thought. As I returned to my apartment, my bags filled with soda, I saw him. Gervase. The golden boy of academia, a regular face on television, the word ‘genius’ practically tattooed on his forehead. He stood there in a tailored suit, a sight that did nothing to quell the deep-seated irritation I felt for him. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice cold. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Why aren’t you home?” he asked again, his voice raspy. I frowned, bewildered. What business was it of his? Seeing my silence, his expression fell. “Your parents really miss you…” “If you don’t have anything else to say, you can leave,” I cut him off, making no effort to hide my annoyance. “You’re not welcome here.” “I’ve missed you, too.” His voice was quiet, but the words hit me like a physical blow. He had to be insane. I let him in, poured him a glass of water, and stared at him, my mind reeling. “Do you have any idea what you just said?” He nodded slowly. “Your dad said that when you came home this year, he was going to try and set us up. But… you didn’t come home. So I came to find you.” I was silent for a long moment. “I’m not going on a date with you,” I finally said. “You should go.” “Why?” He looked genuinely confused. “You’ve hated me since we were kids, but I’ve never done anything to hurt you.” “You don’t need a reason to hate someone,” I said, my face a mask of indifference. “Leave. Don’t make me throw you out.” “Just be reasonable…” “I am being reasonable. And I’m perfectly lucid.” I looked him straight in the eye, my voice dangerously low. “I hate you. I really, truly hate you. I don’t care how famous or successful you are, Gervase. Get out of my apartment. I never want to see you again.” The truth is, I always knew he liked me. You just know these things. In elementary school, he’d help me with my homework, tapping my forehead in exasperation at my slowness and murmuring, “You’re such a dork.” In middle school, when his teachers suggested he skip a grade, he sought me out, his eyes full of hope in the biting wind. “Do you want me to?” he’d asked. Before I could answer, he’d pulled me into a quick, tight hug and then let go, smiling. “Even if I skip, we’ll still be best friends.” Then came high school and the rumors—skipping class, getting into fights, dating the prettiest girl in school. I heard it all, but I didn’t care. Not until he showed up on my walk home one day, his face bruised and swollen, his eyes red-rimmed and miserable. “Stella,” he’d pleaded, his voice thick. “Why didn’t you even ask me what happened? Don’t you care about me? It hurts…” The memory dissolved. Gervase was gone, and from the look on his face, my words had hit their mark. The water in the glass was cold. I washed it, sank onto the sofa, and switched on the projector. Predictably, my phone was already blowing up with messages from my parents. They called me ungrateful. “How dare you reject someone as wonderful as Gervase? Who do you think you are?” “It’s an honor he even wants you! You worthless, shameless girl! Staying out there like a tramp instead of coming home! We raised you for nothing!” “I wish I’d never given birth to you!” A bitter smile touched my lips. Sometimes, I wished I’d never been born, either. The day after New Year’s is my birthday. Growing up, my mother always said, “Kids with bad grades don’t deserve birthdays. Only when you’re as smart as Gervase will you deserve a cake bought with our money.” So, before I turned eighteen, I never had a birthday cake. My first year of college, I used the money I’d earned from tutoring to buy myself a whole eight-inch cake. I devoured it, mouthful after painful mouthful, even when the cream turned my stomach and I had to lean over the trash can, gagging. I forced myself to finish every last crumb, as if I could somehow reclaim all those lost years of joy. That morning, as I went through my routine, these memories surfaced, a familiar mix of tragic and absurd. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. “It’s all in the past,” I told myself. I picked up the cake I’d ordered. The baker had followed the photo I’d sent, shaping it into a cute cartoon character. “You’re a kid at heart,” she’d teased. I just smiled. When I got home, my heart sank. There he was again, the last person on earth I wanted to see. Gervase. “You again?” I sighed. He pursed his lips and pulled a small, elegant box from his pocket, holding it out to me. “A birthday gift.” “How did you know it was my birthday?” “Your parents told me,” he said. “They told me to spend the day with you, that you love celebrating your birthday.” I stared at the box in his hand, a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside me. So they knew. They knew I wanted to celebrate. They knew I wanted a cake. They knew about all the hurt they had caused, and they simply hadn’t cared. “It seems they’d rather have you as their child than me.” My voice was flat. “They’d even lie about me liking my birthday just to get you to come here.” He winced, as if he finally understood. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Your mother said you two just had a small fight. I thought… I thought you’d want to patch things up.” He paused. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He didn’t retract the box. “This gift is from me. I made this charm myself. I wanted to give it to you. Happy birthday.” I didn’t take it. “I don’t want it. Please leave.” I said it again, my voice firm. “Gervase, I hate you. I really, truly do. Please, don’t ever bother me again.” That birthday passed in a blur of quiet melancholy. I had planned to light six candles, but after the third, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. I looked around the empty apartment. Even with the warm, orange-toned decor I’d chosen, the loneliness was palpable. What was the point? I blew out the three tiny flames, scraped them into the trash, and forked a dollop of frosting into my mouth. The rich, velvety sweetness offered a fleeting moment of comfort. I cut a small slice, cracked open a Coke, and curled up on the sofa to watch a replay of the New Year’s Eve special. The comedy sketches were terrible. I was about to switch to a movie when my phone rang—an unknown number. It was Gervase’s mother. She started with a cloyingly sweet inquiry about my well-being, chattering on until my patience wore thin. “Mrs. Hayes,” I interrupted, “what is it you really want?” She laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. “Stella, dear, I wasn’t aware Gervase was going to see you about a… setup. His mentor is actually planning to introduce him to a senator’s granddaughter. Your circumstances… they’re just too different. Our family could never accept a daughter-in-law like you. Even if Gervase approached you himself, I trust you won’t get any foolish ideas. Do you understand?” I was speechless for a moment, then incredulous. “So, instead of managing your own son, you’re calling to warn me not to get my hopes up?” “Gervase is a genius,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “And you… well. Honestly, Stella, I’m saying this for your own good.” “Who the hell do you think you are?” I sat up, my voice turning to ice. “Don’t think for a second that calling you ‘Mrs. Hayes’ gives you the right to lecture me. I don’t even listen to my own parents. What makes you think you’re anything special?” I slammed the phone down. But the rage was still there, a hot coil in my stomach. I yanked Gervase out of my block list and dialed his number. The fury that had been simmering since yesterday finally boiled over. “Are you insane?” I shrieked into the phone. “Is your whole family insane? Showing up out of the blue to humiliate me? What, am I some kind of joke to you? Do you people—” I raged on, a torrent of words, until the pressure in my chest finally eased. I took a long swig of Coke. Only then did I hear his voice. “I’m sorry, I—” I stabbed the end-call button before he could finish and blocked his number again. A profound sense of relief washed over me. Sometimes, losing your mind is incredibly satisfying. Three years ago, when I first arrived in this city, I went to the most famous cathedral and knelt before the altar, making a vow. I will never let anyone make me feel small again. I had been wronged too many times. I was done. Now, I would rather die than let myself be bullied. The dark screen of my tablet reflected my emotionless face, a face so much like my mother’s. I sneered at the image. I didn’t even care about my own parents anymore. Who in this world could possibly make me bow my head now? After the holiday break, my boss announced with breathless excitement that he’d hired an industry titan for an internship. A cold dread washed over me. “Hello, everyone.” Of course. It was Gervase. He placed a tray of bubble tea on the central table, his smile warm and perfectly polished. “I look forward to working with you all.” I stared at him, my face a blank slate. He met my gaze with that same infuriatingly gentle smile, and I had no idea what his game was. This relentless pursuit wasn’t the style of a proud genius. I certainly wasn’t charming enough to warrant this level of… obsession. Where was his dignity? His pride? After being rejected so many times, was he just a glutton for punishment? I didn’t take his bubble tea. I turned on my heel and walked away without a second glance. A few minutes later, he appeared at my desk, holding a mango bubble tea. “This is your favorite. I saved it for you.” “I don’t like it.” I didn’t even look up. “I only told you I liked it because I didn’t want you holding anything I actually enjoy.” He paused, but there was no anger in his eyes. “Then what do you like? I’ll go buy it now.” Snap. I slammed my pen down on the desk. I looked up at him, my voice dangerously low. “Gervase, what is wrong with you? Do you have some kind of humiliation fetish? I’ve yelled at you, thrown you out, pushed you away—and you just keep coming back. Do you enjoy being treated like a dog?” He swallowed hard. “If it’s your dog,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “is that a fetish?” I froze. Beside me, a colleague’s chair clattered to the floor. She stared at me, then at Gervase, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and terror. “You… you two…” “I’m pursuing her,” Gervase said to her, smiling easily. I was convinced he had lost his mind. He clearly didn’t think so. He stood over me, holding the drink, and asked again, his voice gentle. “What flavor do you like? I’ll go get it. Any brand you want.” His tall frame blocked the sunlight from the window, casting me in shadow. His focus on me was so intense, so tender, it was terrifying. A single thought crystalized in my mind: There is a fine line between genius and madness. The office was dead silent. My colleagues were trying, and failing, to pretend to work, their eyes darting nervously toward him. Fine. I pushed my keyboard away. “Let’s go talk. Downstairs, at the coffee shop.” He glanced at the bubble tea in his hand, hesitating. “But I…” I grabbed the corner of his jacket and pulled. The instant my fingers touched the fabric, he yielded, following me obediently. Like a dog that had found its master. In the coffee shop, I ordered a black coffee and tried to keep my voice even. “What do you really want? Can you just tell me?” “I just want to know what kind of bubble tea you like.” He had thrown the other one away and was now wiping his sweaty palms with a napkin. His expression was almost… mournful. “All these years, I’ve never once done anything that made you happy. I just wanted to buy you a drink you like. To see you smile.” “Why do you want me to be happy?” “Because I’m in love with you,” he said, without a flicker of hesitation. I stared at him, my mind racing. It was too strange. All of it. This deeply-in-love act was completely out of character for the proud, untouchable man I knew. “Did something happen to you?” I asked, probing. “I remember you being… different.” “People change,” he said quietly. “Besides, you never really knew me that well to begin with.” I fell silent. I wanted to tell him to leave, but I knew the words were useless. The silence between us was heavy, suffocating. He broke it first. “Give me one month. Let me try.” His voice was pleading. “If you don’t give me a chance to try, I’ll never be able to let this go. Just let me try to win you over. Please?” I still didn’t speak. He clenched his fists. “I know seeing me disgusts you… so I bought the apartment you’re renting. After one month, no matter what you decide, I’ll sign the deed over to you. As an apology for… disgusting you. Okay?” I blinked, more confused than ever. “What are you trying to get out of this? What could I possibly have that’s worth all of this?” “I told you, I love you. But you’ve always hated me. It’s… become an obsession.” He met my eyes. “Stella, I’m begging you. Give me a chance to resolve this. For my own peace of mind. Can you do that?” The reason still felt wrong, flimsy, but I couldn’t articulate why. A fully paid-for apartment in the heart of the city was worth a fortune. He was either insane or incredibly generous. I studied his face for a long time, then sighed. Whatever. What did his motives have to do with me? “Just one month. Are you sure?” He nodded eagerly. “Fine,” I said. “But after one month, you disappear from my life. Completely.” That evening, Gervase followed me home and let himself into the apartment directly across from mine. So that’s where he’d been staying. As he was about to close his door, I stopped him. “Can I call you something else?” He turned, confused. “A different name,” I explained. “Something other than Gervase. When I was a kid, every time my mom yelled at me, she used you as the gold standard. Hearing your name… it just brings all of that back. It’s… unpleasant.” His face paled. “They always compared you to me when they scolded you?” “What else?” He bit his lip. “Call me whatever you want. Anything that makes you happy.” “Then I’ll call you Number Three.” I saw the flicker of pain in his eyes but pressed on. “My ex before my last was Number One. My last ex was Number Two. You fit right in. You don’t mind, do you?” He bit his lip so hard I thought he might draw blood. I pretended not to notice. “Silence means you agree,” I said, turning and closing my door without another word. Gervase had been brought in on the recommendation of a renowned academic, so to keep him happy, my boss gave me a month of paid leave. I didn’t argue. It was the perfect opportunity to deep clean my apartment. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor under a baseball cap, when he came over. Seeing me covered in grime, he frowned and pulled me to my feet. “Don’t do this. I’ll hire a cleaner for you.” I decided to press my advantage. “I also want one of those robot vacuums.” “Done.” “I’m hungry. Go get me some soup. From that place on the west side. I want it fresh and piping hot.” “Okay.” “And I want some of those green bean pastries. You’ll have to wait in line.” “I will.” Is there no limit to his compliance? “Will you really do anything I say?” “Yes.” He took my hand and began to gently, meticulously wipe it clean with a wet wipe. “Anything that makes you happy.” The man was certifiably insane. I blinked, a sly smile playing on my lips. “In that case… I’m thinking of taking on a couple of college boys as sugar babies. Will you foot the bill for that, Number Three?” His grip on my hand tightened for a fraction of a second. Then he relaxed, his gaze softening as he looked at the red marks his fingers had left. He brought my hand to his lips and blew on it gently. “If that would truly bring you happiness,” he murmured, “then yes. I would.” I was speechless. The man was a lost cause. I didn’t want takeout, so I sent him to the kitchen to cook. Leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed, I watched him expertly chop vegetables. “The toilet’s clogged,” I announced suddenly. “Number Three, can you go take care of it?” He grunted an affirmative, pulled off his cooking gloves, and headed for the bathroom. When he returned, hands washed, I watched him with a complicated expression. “If my mother knew I was making you do this, she’d probably skin me alive.” Gervase was a god in her eyes. And I was making her god plunge toilets. It was blasphemy. “They don’t matter,” he said curtly. “Stella, don’t let them make you unhappy.” That was the third time he’d said that. A thought suddenly struck me. “You seem terrified of me being unhappy. Why?” He paused his work, but didn’t turn or answer. When he called me for dinner, I was engrossed in a movie. It was the climax, the hero and heroine tangled in a passionate embrace. Gervase switched it off. “Time to eat.” “I don’t want to.” I pouted. “I’m not eating food made by hands that have just been unclogging a toilet.” It was unfair. It was childish. I expected him to get angry. He didn’t. He just looked at his own hands with a helpless expression. “I’ll go take a shower. And I’ll cook you a fresh meal. Just wait for me.” My eyes narrowed. There it was again. That strange feeling. He was coddling me, indulging my every whim like I was a petulant child. A gentle, cautious, desperate effort to keep me happy. But why? My eyes landed on an apple on the table. I picked up a paring knife. The moment the handle settled into my palm, I heard Gervase’s sharp cry. “What are you doing?!” My hand jerked. The blade sliced across my finger, drawing a bright red line of blood. Gervase lunged, snatching the knife from my hand and flinging it across the room where it clattered against the far wall.
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