Chapter 2: The Secret Unveiled

The homeroom teacher pushed her glasses up her nose and flicked her ponytail, sneering, "Seems the girl you like is pretty self-aware. She knows senior year is important, knows to hide her beauty and focus on what's right. But you? Your head is full of nonsense."

Her sarcasm echoed off the walls. Some students snickered; others looked at me with a mix of pity and awe. My humiliation was complete.

I gazed at the homeroom teacher, dazed.

My mind flashed back—her face lit by golden sunlight, so different from her cold mask now. My thoughts tangled between memory and the unbearable present.

I still remembered how beautiful she was—

She knelt beside me on the playground mulch, sunlight catching on the friendship bracelets stacked up her arm. The image was burned in my mind: after school one day, the late sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes spinning around her hair as she knelt beside me. She'd looked at me like I was worth something.

Back in the sunset, her hair loose and fragrant with lavender, as she gently kissed my forehead.

For a split second, I could almost smell that lavender again. The memory was a safe place, a secret I could never share.

Her lips tasted sweet and soft, like strawberry lip balm.

Even now, I could remember that taste—sweet, a little waxy, clinging to my lips long after.

That day, my lips were cracked. She took out her own lip balm, cupped my face, and gently applied it to my lips.

She'd smiled and said, "You can't be running around with lips like sandpaper, kid." I'd been too stunned to protest.

And my mom, reading to this part, said shyly, "What I miss most is when you helped me apply lip balm. I was so embarrassed, but also stubborn like a boy. I pretended not to like it, saying you'd already used it, but you said my lips were cracked and bleeding. I closed my eyes shyly, you chuckled, and gently applied it for me."

Her cheeks flushed, and she kept her eyes on the paper, as if afraid to look at anyone. A ripple of whispers ran through the class, some students covering their faces in disbelief.

The homeroom teacher slammed her palm on the desk.

The sharp crack jolted everyone. My heart leaped into my throat.

She said coldly, "I take back what I said before. Looks like this girl isn't very self-aware either—she's simply shameless! Everyone, listen up! If I ever catch any boys and girls in our class sharing lip balm, I'll call your parents immediately!"

Her laugh was too loud, brittle at the edges—like she was trying to convince herself this was still just a classroom prank. The class giggled nervously, but no one looked at me.

After speaking, she nodded at my mom, signaling her to continue.

Her eyes flicked away, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. She cleared her throat, as if to remind everyone she was still in charge.

My mom read softly, "So many years have passed, but I still can't forget. To you, I'm just a passerby in your life, but to me, you changed my whole world."

Her voice quivered. I caught a glimpse of my mom dabbing at her eyes, struggling to keep it together in front of thirty kids and two teachers.

"I heard your grades are excellent, and you'll surely get into a top college. But I'm different. Everyone says I always skip class, my grades are poor, and I have no future. You're like a girl from a well-off family, while I'm just a kid from a working-class home."

I heard a soft sigh from someone in the room, and a few students shifted in their seats. For the first time, the class seemed to realize this wasn't a joke or a stunt—there was real pain here.

The homeroom teacher couldn't help but laugh. "Classic high school drama—laying it on thick, hoping for a little sympathy! Girls, listen up. Boys love to say these sentimental, cringe-worthy lines—putting themselves down, praising the girl, then retreating to win her sympathy."

She arched her eyebrows, trying to lighten the mood. Some girls giggled; others looked away, maybe feeling a bit awkward now.

All the girls nodded seriously, listening intently.

One girl whispered to her friend, "Ugh, boys are always like that." There was a low rumble of agreement, but it felt forced.