Between what James did in the past and what Zhang had just confessed, the difference was frighteningly small.
And yet, Zhang wasn't the villain here—at least, not in the way James had been. But to Angel, pain had no timeline, no logic. It returned in waves, loud and cruel, flooding every part of her memory. The panic, the betrayal, the helplessness—it was back. All of it.
Ironically, Angel had long been seen as the "strong one."
The girl with zero worries.
That was what they called her—her family, her classmates, even some of her closest friends. She was the one who cracked silly jokes at the worst times, the one who laughed too loud, who teased when others cried. The one who carried too much but never seemed weighed down.
But it still hurt.
Years ago, when it had first happened, her mother almost sued the woman responsible—for all the emotional trauma she'd caused Angel. But Angel had begged her not to. Not out of mercy. Out of fear. Fear of whispers. Fear of judgment. Fear of being labeled, pitied, or dismissed.
Because she was trying to be strong.
Back then, and now.
But what Zhang had said—what he saw and what he did—had brought everything crashing back. That deep part of her that had never truly healed was now raw again, exposed like an open wound. The kind of wound she'd spent years pretending didn't exist.
And if it had only been about her, she would have swallowed it—like always. She would've endured.
But this was different.
This was family.
Her immediate elder sister—of all her female siblings, the one with the softest soul, just hidden under layers of sarcasm and harmless teasing. The same sister who bullied her with affection and laughed so hard she'd cry.
Angel understood her. Understood her well enough to know when her jokes were disguises.
She wasn't trying to hurt anyone. The bullying was never cruel. In fact, it often made them both laugh until their stomachs hurt and their cheeks burned. It had become a form of comfort between them—a ritual, a way of saying "I'm here," even if the words never came out that way.
Sometimes, that was how their family survived pain. Through sarcasm. Through silliness. Through pushing each other without breaking.
Angel was no masochist. But she was sweet. Too sweet for a world that hadn't always been kind.
So now—though it felt like her heart had been pierced open again—she did what she always did.
She laughed.
It started small—a chuckle she couldn't control—and then it grew, the way laughter sometimes grows when there's no space left for tears.
Zhang Bing's brows furrowed as he watched her. His lips parted slightly, unsure whether to stop her or laugh with her. But it didn't feel funny.
Not at all.
"Why... are you laughing?" he asked gently, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I-Is... it f—funny?"
Angel didn't stop smiling, though her eyes had dimmed.
"Does it look funny to you?" she asked, her voice soft, her tone unreadable.
Zhang hesitated. "But…"
He had so many words. So many things he wanted to say. But they all spun in his head like leaves caught in a storm—directionless, chaotic. None of them felt right. None felt enough.
"Nothing," he finally said, backing down. "Just… nothing."
He was quiet after that. Watching her. Studying her every expression like he was trying to read through a foreign language.
She smiled for a few more seconds—then it fell, slowly, like glass sliding off the edge of a table.
She turned to him suddenly.
"Is it because you're dying?" she asked. Her voice was low and flat.
She wasn't looking at him. She was staring past the rusted basketball hoop ahead of them, but Zhang knew—she wasn't seeing anything.
"Huh?" he blinked.
"You know, my family believes in the Blessed Sacrament," she said, still not looking at him. "You know what that means, right?"
Zhang blinked again, caught off guard. The topic felt random, misplaced.
He nodded slowly. "I've heard of it… but I don't actually know what they do."
His voice was quiet. Almost unsure.
Angel scoffed lightly. "What are you, a pagan?"
Zhang hesitated. "I don't belong to any religion."
She turned to him then. Her eyes were clear but filled with something he couldn't name. "You think you made yourself, huh?"
"That's not what I mean," he said quickly, defensively.
"Or you think you're some god of your own?" There was sarcasm in her voice, but it was dull—tired.
Zhang remembered too late that Angel was a firm believer. She never missed Sunday Mass if she could help it. Even during her busiest weeks, she found time for God.
And him? He had only started going to church because of her. Sitting silently in the back pew, just to be near her. Just to understand her world a little better.
"My family believes that when a person's dying—if they receive the Blessed Sacrament or confess sincerely—their sins are washed away. It's like a shortcut to heaven. A final cleansing."
She turned back to the court.
"So… tell me. Which one do you think I am?"
Zhang was stunned. "I… I don't know…"
But before he could stammer further, Angel stood up abruptly.
"I'm heading to a friend's house," she said, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. "You know your way back to the lodge, right?"
He nodded slowly.
He had no words left.
He watched as she walked away—her shoulders stiff, her steps fast and quiet. She didn't slam the door. She didn't yell. She didn't say goodbye.
Was she angry?
Was she heartbroken?
Was she disappointed in him?
Zhang couldn't tell.
But the silence she left behind was louder than any scream.
And it killed him.
She could've slapped him. Cursed him. Thrown something.
That would've been easier than this—this haunting absence of sound, this quiet disappointment that felt like a punch to the chest.
It wasn't his crime. It wasn't his shortcoming. It was James's. Yet, why did it feel like a weight that only he could feel now?
Why did it have to be him?
He too had been betrayed—by someone he loved. A girlfriend who smiled at him in public and slept with her "real boyfriend" behind his back.
But this… this was different.
When he looked into Angel's eyes a few minutes ago, he didn't see anger.
He saw resignation.
A look that said, "I'm tired of trusting people. I'm tired of being wrong."
And that look—that look destroyed him.
It was more painful than the day his car got crushed by a truck.
More painful than the weeks he spent in the hospital, tubes in his veins, machines humming beside him.
More painful than seeing his girlfriend—his ex—make out with another man in the corridor outside his room, thinking he was unconscious.
This was worse.
Because Angel had never asked for anything in return.
She cared for him. Fed him. Laughed with him. Prayed for him. Sat with him through panic attacks. And never once, did she ask him to do the same.
And he had failed her.
His chest felt heavy—too heavy.
He didn't care who was nearby. Didn't care if people heard. Didn't care if someone judged him.
The pain boiled over and erupted.
"Fuck you bastards!!!" he screamed, voice cracking. "Fuck you all!!!"
And with that, his tears finally fell.
Not for James.
Not for the past.
But for Angel.
For the girl who laughed instead of crying.
For the girl who smiled while bleeding.
For the girl who still believed in God.
And who no longer believed in trust.
make amends?