They had gone to many places and enjoyed the beauty Anambra had to offer.
Now, they were alone at the school's sports playground—a quiet, open space perfect for relaxing after a long day.
After a long pause and a sigh, Angel finally broke the silence.
"You have something to tell me?"
"Huh?" The question caught him off guard. In fact, it was the last thing he expected.
"What are you suddenly saying?" He tried not to stutter.
"I can tell from your eyes. You're hiding something. You better spill it... because when you finally decide to tell me, I might be in such a disgusting mood that I won't even want to look at you, let alone listen." Her eyes stayed fixed ahead.
"It might sound crazy..." he hesitated.
"And I'm crazier." She cut him off, voice calm but heavy.
He drew a shaky breath. "It's about Stella..."
"Mm-hmm?"
"We... Erh... We—"
"You what?" she snapped. "I know things like this happen. Just tell me. If I get angry, then I get angry. You deserve it."
Zhang could see she was trying not to look anxious. But he also knew that the truth could break people in ways even lies couldn't.
He finally spoke, pausing often between words, as if trying to pick the least painful way to spit out poison.
"We planned it... that night. To force you... to have sex. We planned to rape you."
He swallowed hard, eyes cast downward.
"Stella wanted you to regret ever confronting her about her lifestyle. She said she'd accuse you of sleeping around—tell your parents, tell the campus—ruin your name. Drag you in the mud and humiliate you publicly.
"She was furious the plan failed. She said if your sister had come alone that night, it would've worked. But she came with her boyfriend. So out of rage, Stella threw you out of her apartment."
Angel was silent for a long time.
She had looked into Zhang's eyes at first, searching for a lie, a flinch, some sign of insincerity. But she saw none—only guilt and regret. Neither interested her.
Then came the flood. Everything came back.
The bullying. The whispered accusations. The cold verdicts passed on her behind her back. The ruthless words: You can never make it in life.
She remembered a day during a classroom discussion about future careers. For the first time, she had opened up—just a little. She told them, with pride, that Ben Carson was her role model. That she wanted to be like him—maybe even better.
They had laughed. Not in amusement, but in mockery.
"You're in art class," someone sneered. "You don't know anything about science. Stop daydreaming."
The laughter grew.
Then someone—cold, cruel, final—said the words that buried her hope.
"No matter what you do, you can never be like Ben Carson."
That was the moment her dream died. Her trust in people cracked beyond repair. Her faith in the impossible shattered.
She had still stood up. Still forced the words out.
"Then watch me do it."
But it was only self-defense—one last swing before collapse.
She had walked out thinking she'd won a little. But just a few steps away, she heard the sneers behind her back.
That was the day she died.
Totally dead—on the inside.