Chapter 5: Houston, First Love and First Lies

“Sean, will you forget me?”

“No, I’ll never forget you.”

“Can you always remember the best parts of me?”

He nodded, brushing the hair from my face. I tried to memorize the warmth of his hands, the sound of his voice, knowing it might be the last time.

Meeting Sean was already the most unreachable dream in my dark life. I couldn’t even face my own fate, let alone Sean. Maybe people like me shouldn’t wish for things they can’t have.

I watched him walk away, the bracelet heavy on my wrist. I promised myself I’d let him go, even if it broke me.

Later, Sean still called often, but I never answered. He started texting—at first threatening, saying even if I ran to the ends of the earth, he’d find me and told me to wait. Later, he pleaded for me to just tell him where I was, said he wouldn’t come, just wanted a reply. He sent countless messages, most often asking what he’d done wrong, if I really didn’t care about him at all.

His messages piled up in my inbox, unread but never deleted. Sometimes, I’d read them late at night, crying silently into my pillow.

“Mariah, I’m going abroad to study. Do you really hate me? I’ve sent so many messages—why won’t you reply, even once? If you want to find me, you can text me. I won’t change my number. Or you can come to America—I’m at the University of Chicago. But I’ve grown up, I won’t bother you anymore. Best wishes, always. Take care.”

That was his last message to me. He was truly a good person, but our lives were always headed in different directions.

I stared at the screen for hours, memorizing his words, wishing things could have been different.

I was very busy in college. The money I owed Yvette weighed on me like a thousand-pound stone. Luckily, I found a customer service job that paid well—fifteen dollars an hour. Every day after class, I went to work. Meals were provided, and there was heating. I wore the same thin jacket every day—the money went to living expenses and repaying Yvette. I couldn’t afford a thick, warm winter coat.

I layered sweaters under my old jacket, shivering on the walk to work. I’d blow on my hands, pretending I didn’t notice the cold.

The boss’s wife always joked, “Young girls just love to look pretty—wearing so little in winter, afraid to look fat in more layers? Look, your lips are purple from the cold. How can you care about looks more than your health? You’re being ridiculous!”

Her teasing was gentle, but I could hear the concern in her voice. I smiled, grateful for her kindness.

I smiled awkwardly. When you’ve never had respect, you hold onto your pride wherever you can. I didn’t argue. “I’m not cold, really.”

She shook her head, muttering about stubborn kids, and handed me a cup of hot tea. I held it tight, letting the warmth seep into my bones.

The boss’s wife was kind. After work, she gave me a winter coat she didn’t want. “I’ve worn this for years, was going to throw it out. It’s so cold outside, and already snowing. Don’t mind if it’s ugly—just wear it, take it off indoors. No need to return it, it’s a hassle.”

I hugged the coat to my chest, tears prickling my eyes. I thanked her over and over, promising to take good care of it.

How could I care if it was ugly? That was my first real winter coat. Back in the dorm, I carefully cleaned it and cherished it, wearing it for another three years.

Every time I pulled it on, I remembered her kindness. It was more than just a coat—it was proof that someone cared.

At school, I was not only free, but finally felt like a normal person. That winter break, I didn’t go home—I kept working part-time at the customer service company. I slept in the dorm during the day, worked at night—night shifts paid two dollars more per hour. Sometimes after work, I’d run errands for the boss and his wife, dropping off paperwork downtown, and they’d give me ten or twenty bucks as a fee. I was reluctant to spend even two dollars on the bus, always walked, calling it exercise.

My feet ached, but I didn’t mind. Each dollar saved brought me closer to freedom. I’d watch the city lights twinkle as I walked, dreaming of a future I could finally call my own.

One day, while delivering documents, it suddenly poured rain. I ran into a coffee shop for shelter and suddenly thought of Sean—the bright, movie-star boy who loved coffee. I wanted to try it too. I ordered the cheapest, plain coffee—two bucks—and sipped it all day.

The bitter taste made my eyes water, but I drank every drop, pretending I was someone who belonged in places like this. For a moment, I felt grown up, almost happy.

I finally paid off Yvette before New Year. That year, I spent Thanksgiving in Chicago with my brother. He spent two days at the computer, found me a special offer plane ticket from St. Louis to Chicago—$89, cheaper than the train. That was my first time flying. It felt so empty and peaceful above the clouds—the skyscrapers that seemed unreachable from the ground were now as small as dust. Just like me.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the world shrink below. For the first time, I believed I could rise above my past.

No! I don’t want to be just a speck of dust—I want to be an eagle soaring in the sky! I want to control my own life.

I whispered the words to myself, promising I’d never settle for less again.

My brother bought a lot of seafood, made a big table of dishes, and wouldn’t let me help. We squeezed into his tiny apartment for hotpot—the beef balls were so hot, I asked why he didn’t go home for Thanksgiving. He gave me all the lamb. “I just found out Mom stole your tuition.”

He looked at me, eyes full of guilt and love. I shook my head, telling him it didn’t matter anymore. We ate until we couldn’t move, laughing at old memories.

I thought my brother would be angry, blame me for not telling him. But he said nothing, just kept giving me food. He was always the wise one. He told me his job was great, he earned a lot; told me to eat more, and if I needed money, to tell him, not to starve myself.

He got drunk and said a lot, but I have a bad memory—I didn’t remember much. That night, my stepmom called many times, but my brother didn’t answer, even turned off his phone. For the first time, I felt like a child with a home. I had a very, very good brother.

I fell asleep on his couch, warm and safe for the first time in years. I wished the night would never end.

I stayed in Chicago for a week. My brother took me to many places—the Bean, the Art Institute, Millennium Park—we even went to Navy Pier at 4 a.m. to watch the sunrise. I realized for the first time how alive and bright the city was compared to back home.

We wandered through museums and parks, eating street food and laughing until our sides hurt. I snapped photos of everything, wanting to remember every moment.

Before I left, my brother asked if I wanted to take the GRE—said if I did, he’d still support me. He always said that, but treating me as a sister was enough—I didn’t need him to make up for anything.

I promised I’d think about it, but deep down, I just wanted to make him proud.

In sophomore year, the customer service boss asked if I wanted to be a livestream host—they could give me commission, but they weren’t sure I’d be up for being in the spotlight. Base salary was two thousand, plus commission—why not?

I hesitated, nerves jangling, but the extra money was too good to pass up. I told myself I could learn to be brave.

My stepmom still called, but I never answered. Just to ask if I made money, could I help them—if I fell for that again, I’d be a fool.

I blocked her number, focusing on building a life that was finally mine.

At that time, livestreaming was just starting—few people did it. My job was simple: introduce products, talk and promote them. I still felt small and scared, even with something as simple as talking to a camera—twenty years of shrinking into myself was hard to shake. The boss’s wife never blamed me—she always said a young girl willing to do livestreaming was brave, told me to take my time, I’d improve.

She watched my first streams, offering gentle feedback and encouragement. Her belief in me made me believe in myself, just a little.

I memorized every sales pitch, practiced in front of the mirror day and night. If others streamed one hour, I did five; if others did five, I stayed in the studio all day. Luckily, there weren’t many classes then, or my grades would’ve suffered.

I lost track of time, my days blurring into a cycle of study, work, and streaming. I watched my follower count climb, disbelief and pride warring in my chest.

Time passed quickly—two years went by just like that. I never believed fate would favor me, but this time, I truly felt what it was like to have good luck. My livestream suddenly exploded—overnight, I gained tens of thousands of fans and sold thousands of dollars of goods in one night. The boss’s wife and I hugged excitedly—she gave me a $300 bonus, saying she was right about me. And I found my turning point.

We celebrated with takeout pizza and soda, laughing until our sides hurt. I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserved this happiness.

I took the bonus and went to the mall—even though it was summer, I bought a discounted winter coat for next season, new and thick. This winter, I wouldn’t be cold anymore. But my happiness was short-lived.

I hung the coat in my closet, running my fingers over the soft lining, promising myself I’d never go cold again.