He Wanted A Second Chance But was Denied

Lillian was diagnosed with late-stage throat cancer. To ensure she could receive treatment in peace, I started setting up a street stall after work every day.

After finally saving enough money for her initial treatment, I wanted to surprise her, only to stumble upon her dining with a young man at a fancy restaurant.

Her best friend teased her, "How long are you going to keep up this act? Aren't you afraid that once you're exposed, your boyfriend will break up with you?"

Lillian smiled charmingly, "I'm just playing with him because he's so dumb. Who would've thought he'd take it seriously? But being dumb has its perks. He can deal with boring job and he doesn't get in the way of me finding other handsome guys..."

Dumb?

It turned out that all my heartfelt concern was just a synonym for 'dumb' in her eyes. After realizing this, I immediately resigned from my job and volunteered for rural teaching. Yet she stubbornly came looking for me, clutching my hand, refusing to let go and pleading, "Don't... don't leave me..."

——

Lillian had always seemed concerned about the long hours I put into the street stall. It wasn't just the work itself, but the toll it was clearly taking on me. She'd often sit on the couch, watching me with worried eyes as I came home late at night, exhausted but determined to keep going.

"How much money can you even make from a little stall?" she'd ask, her tone half-scolding, half-pleading. Her voice was hoarse, a reflection of her illness, but the frustration in it was unmistakable. "Your health is the most important. What's the point of doing all this if you wear yourself out?"

I'd always brush off her concern, forcing a smile to ease her worry, even though I knew deep down she had a point. "A penny's still money," I'd say, trying to lighten the mood. "You're the patient here, so focus on taking your meds and getting good sleep. I'm used to rough living; my body can handle it."

But no matter how hard I tried to sound convincing, I could see the way her face would fall. Lillian would grow quiet, her lips pressing together as if she wanted to say something but didn't know how. Her eyes, always so bright despite her illness, would cloud with sadness. She'd stare at the floor or out the window, her voice dropping to a soft, almost broken tone.

"You're not handling this, you're just pushing yourself too hard," she'd say. "Cut yourself some slack. You're human, just like everyone else. Just let me..."

I knew where she was going with that sentence and the very thought of it sent a chill down my spine. The fear of losing her, the idea that she could give up—on me, on herself—was something I couldn't bear. My heart would race and before she could say the word I dreaded, I'd rush over and cover her mouth with my hand, silencing her.

One day, after leaving the hospital, I forced myself to focus on the task at hand—opening my street stall like I did every evening. The process was mechanical by now: set up the tables, light the burners and start cooking.

The familiar sizzle of the frying pan, the aroma of grilled meats and stir-fried vegetables—this routine had become my solace. For a few hours, I could forget the weight pressing on my chest, the constant worry gnawing at me from the inside.

That evening, business was better than usual. People lined up for their favorite dishes and I sold out in just three hours. My last portion was for a regular customer, a young guy who worked at a nearby restaurant. As I packed up, I decided to deliver the food to him personally since it was on my way. After that, I planned to stop by the supermarket to pick up some discounted vegetables—something soft and easy for Lillian to digest.

But as I neared the restaurant, something caught my eye. Across the street, at one of the upscale bistros, I saw a familiar figure. I froze, my hand tightening around the bag of food as my stomach twisted.

It was Lillian. She should've been resting in her hospital bed, recovering from her latest round of treatment. Instead, she was here, at this fancy restaurant, smiling and laughing as she adjusted the tie of a young man sitting across from her.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from them. Lillian, who always looked pale and frail around me, now seemed vibrant, full of energy. She was handing the man a watch—one I couldn't even dream of affording. It glistened under the restaurant's warm lighting, a stark contrast to the modest life we had been living.

The man's eyes lit up as he accepted the gift. "This is the latest from Cartier! Thank you, Lillian. You're amazing." His voice was full of excitement, oblivious to everything else around him.

Lillian's best friend, who sat next to her, laughed and leaned in. "How long are you going to keep up this act?" she teased, her tone dripping with amusement. "Aren't you afraid that once he finds out, your boyfriend will break up with you?"

Lillian chuckled softly, her voice light and carefree, as if the weight of cancer, of our struggles, didn't exist. "I'm just playing with him," she replied, her words stabbing into me like knives. "He's so dumb. Who would've thought he'd take it seriously? But being dumb has its perks. He handles all the boring stuff and he doesn't get in the way of me finding someone... better."

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my mind reeling. Dumb? Was that what she thought of me? That all my sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the endless hustling to scrape together money for her treatment, was just the work of a fool?

My breath caught in my throat and a bitter chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. Dumb? I had heard that word before. It echoed in my mind, taking me back to when my parents died and my relatives swooped in like vultures, pretending to care. They only wanted the house, the little bit of inheritance my parents had left behind. They passed me around like a burden, tossing me from one home to the next, until they finally took everything and abandoned me.

I had survived on scraps, almost starved to death before the village head took pity on me. Welfare was my lifeline, barely enough to keep me alive, but enough to remind me that I was nothing more than a weed, surviving in the cracks of life, unnoticed and unwanted.

But I clawed my way out. I got myself into university, the one thing I thought would change my life for the better. Yet fate had other plans. In my third year, just before my final exams, I broke my leg. It was the worst timing imaginable. I limped toward the exam hall, but before I could make it, I fell again, re-injuring myself.

I knew then that my chances of continuing my studies were slipping away. The scholarship I had hoped for was gone and as I lay there on the cold pavement, people walked past without a second glance. I was just an obstacle in their day, an insect in the way.

But then she appeared. Lillian. She stopped, reached out her hand and smiled. "I'm not very strong, so pull gently," she had said, her voice soft and sweet, like a lifeline in the darkness. I had thought she was different, like me—someone struggling to survive, someone who understood what it meant to be at the bottom.

Our worlds intertwined after that. We became inseparable. She joined me in my part-time jobs, shared my worries, my dreams. We were the "weird duo" in university—too poor to hang out with the others, but we didn't care. We were rich in spirit, or so I thought.

After graduation, we rented a small apartment, barely big enough for the two of us. But we were happy—or at least, I was. I worked day and night, dreaming of saving enough to start a family, to build a life where we wouldn't be caught off guard by fate again. I even thought about kids someday, imagining a future where things finally went right.

But then, Lillian got sick. Cancer. Stage four. The doctors were grim and my world came crashing down. I threw every penny I had into her treatment, sold everything I could, took on even more jobs, hoping I could somehow save her. I cried in secret, broke down more times than I could count. I even thought about ending it all, but I couldn't bear the thought of leaving her alone to suffer.