Chapter 8
485words
Insomnia became my constant companion.
My ankle throbbed at night as I tossed and turned, my closed eyes flooded with memories I couldn't escape.
One night, something inside me simply snapped.
I don't know what triggered it—I just felt life had lost all meaning.
All my strength was pretense, all optimism a performance for others.
I was exhausted. Bone-deep tired.
So I picked up the knife.
The moment I cut, I felt a strange relief.
I woke up in the hospital.
My parents sat beside me, eyes swollen from crying. When they saw me awake, they didn't scold me—they just sobbed harder.
The doctor diagnosed depression, explaining I needed long-term medication and therapy.
When I heard the diagnosis, a weight lifted from my shoulders.
Thank God.
Thank God.
I was just sick.
I wasn't obsessed with winning to the point of madness!
I wasn't some jealous, petty person who couldn't stand others' success!
I wasn't weak, easily crushed by setbacks!
I was just sick. That's all.
Once I got better, everything would be fine.
Before, I had no choices. Now, I chose to become a yoga instructor.
Before, I stood alone on the ice, bathed in spotlight and glory.
Now, I could share that beauty with others.
Watching clients transform under my guidance—from stiff to fluid, insecure to confident—I rediscovered a long-lost sense of purpose.
But the job was far less dignified than I'd imagined.
The yoga studio was no spiritual sanctuary—just another cutthroat business.
Beyond teaching, I carried heavy sales responsibilities.
Monthly targets loomed constantly—miss private lesson sales, lose salary; fail renewal quotas, face the manager's wrath.
The owner, a forty-something man, would publicly humiliate me when targets weren't met—calling me useless, deadweight, "all looks and no talent."
Not content with verbal abuse, he'd send me to the streets to distribute flyers.
But honestly? None of it really bothered me.
I'd heard far worse from my mother's mouth.
The boss's lukewarm profanity couldn't touch me.
I ran the numbers.
Between salary and commission, I could save about three thousand yuan monthly.
My family still owed over two hundred thousand yuan for surgeries and accumulated expenses.
At this rate, it would take five or six years to clear the debt.
Then I'd save for my own studio, free from the owner's tyranny.
Eventually, life would improve.
I never expected to run into Lucas Lane again.
That bitterly cold afternoon, I stood at a busy intersection clutching a stack of flyers.
Just as I was about to seek shelter somewhere warm, I glimpsed a familiar figure.
Seven years.
For seven years, I'd seen that face in countless nightmares, waking in cold sweats.
Yet when he actually appeared before me, I froze completely.
He was still devastatingly handsome.
And of course, he spotted me too.
I clutched the flyers until my knuckles turned white.
