I Paid the Bill, They Paid Me Pity

When the university term began, I treated the entire dormitory to an extravagant seafood feast, with the cost averaging 2,000 dollars per person.

Sophia Andrews, one of my roommates, didn’t eat a single bite. Instead, she stared at me with a dark expression.

“You spend money like it’s nothing. Don’t you feel even a little guilty?” she asked coldly. “Do you have any idea how many children in remote mountain villages don’t even have enough to eat?”

I rolled my eyes and replied, “It’s my family’s money. What does that have to do with you?”

But that same night, she stole my bank card and tried to donate 99,000 dollars on my behalf.

She even had the nerve to say, “I’m helping you do good deeds and accumulate virtue. You should be thanking me!”

Right there in front of the dormitory, I called the police and turned on the speakerphone.

“Hello, officer. My roommate took my money to ‘help the poor.’ Is this considered theft or fraud?”

——

It was only the third day of university when I reserved a private room in an upscale seafood restaurant.

The table overflowed with Australian lobsters, giant king crabs, and premium deep-sea abalone.

My roommates were happily chatting about how to best enjoy the dishes.

I picked up a slice of abalone and smiled. Life was good.

But Sophia hadn’t touched her utensils.

She suddenly set them down and said loudly, “Lauren Wells, do you really feel no guilt at all, spending money like this?”

The room fell silent.

“Do you realize there are children in the mountains who can’t even afford a basic meal?” she continued. “What you spent tonight could feed a poor family for six months!”

Her eyes were red with emotion, and her voice trembled with anger. “Those kids walk more than ten kilometers in worn-out shoes just to get to school—while you sit here enjoying luxury.”

Nina Leads and Yvonne Williams exchanged nervous glances and quietly put down their chopsticks.

I tried to stay calm. “It’s my family’s money. It’s none of your business how I spend it.”

Sophia shook her head. “You’ve been blinded by wealth. I can’t just stand by and watch you fall deeper into this materialistic trap.”

She stood up with self-righteous air. “Children in poverty need help, and yet here you are, indulging in vanity.”

After dinner, I paid the bill with clenched teeth. The joy I’d felt earlier was now completely gone.

But it got worse.

When I returned to our dorm room, I found my desk had been reorganized.

My brand-new 30,000-dollar designer skirt had been pulled out of my closet and tossed aside.

In its place, she had placed a worn-out book titled Children of the Mountain.

My vanity was covered with sticky notes plastered across all my skincare products:

“Chemical poison.”

“Tools of vanity.”

“Capitalist decadence.”

I picked up the tattered book. Fury burned in my chest.

“Sophia! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She walked in from the balcony and looked at me solemnly. “I’m trying to save you, Lauren.”

“Save me?” I said, incredulous.

“I can’t bear to watch you be completely consumed by materialism. You’ve become obsessed with brands and luxury. Your soul is drowning in wealth.”

She pointed at the book. “What you need is to read about those who are truly in need, not waste money on these shallow things.”

I trembled with rage. “What gives you the right to touch my stuff?”

“I’m your roommate,” she said calmly. “And as someone who lives with you, I have a moral duty to help you back onto the right path.”

“You should thank me for caring enough to try and rescue your conscience.”

Nina muttered softly, “Lauren, I think Sophia means well...”

Yvonnee nodded, adding, “She has a point. Maybe we really should pay more attention to the poor.”

I looked at them both. Just hours ago, they were excitedly digging into seafood.

Now, they looked like they were attending a sermon.

Sophia pressed on, voice rising, “Just because you were born rich doesn’t give you the right to live extravagantly. Do you know how many people are still suffering while you indulge in luxury?”

“Where’s your conscience? Your compassion?”

She stepped forward, eyes burning with conviction. “I want to help you find your heart again!”

I stared at her self-important expression and felt sick to my stomach.

“Stop pretending to be a saint,” I snapped.

“I’m not pretending,” she said softly. “I truly want to help you change.”