Chapter 2

On the train back to campus, I bought a cheap cup of instant noodles. I had $11 left.

The moment I got off, I went straight to a diner on the backstreet of the campus.

This was my part-time job—washing dishes in the back kitchen. Five dollars an hour, plus one free staff meal.

The kitchen was in a freezing basement with concrete floors and no heating. The water in the sink was practically ice.

The moment I dipped my hands in, the freezing water hit my split frostbite. I almost dropped the plate.

It hurt like hell, but I didn't dare stop. Every second I paused was money lost.

I washed dishes until eleven-thirty at night. After scrubbing the last iron pot, the manager handed me a takeout box.

It was a box of pasta, completely cold.

I squatted on the steps of the back door, eating the cold food, and casually opened Instagram.

The very first post was from my mother.

A grid of nine photos.

It was a private room in a five-star hotel, the table overflowing with expensive dishes.

In the center was a massive three-tier birthday cake.

Noah was sitting in the middle, surrounded by beautifully wrapped gifts.

My mother stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, her cheek pressed against his.

The caption read:

[Happy 19th birthday to my wonderful son! You are my eternal pride. I will always be here to support you on your journey.]

The comment section was flooded with love.

Our relatives had lined up to leave comments: [Happy birthday, Noah!]

[Looking so handsome!] [Your future is so bright!]

I scrolled through the post again and again. There wasn't even a tiny footnote saying, "Today is also Natalie's birthday."

We were twins. Born on the exact same day, in the exact same hour.

She booked a luxury hotel, bought a massive cake, and invited everyone to celebrate him.

And me? I was squatting in a freezing alleyway in twenty-degree weather, shoving cold pasta down my throat, watching my breath fog in the air. Not a single person had said "happy birthday" to me.

I closed Instagram and finished the rest of my pasta.

On my way back to the dorm, I passed a convenience store. After hesitating for a few seconds, I spent two dollars on a cheap, day-old bagel.

As I was chewing on it, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Noah:

[Hey Natalie, I sold that coat you brought. To be honest, it really wasn't my style lol.]

I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

I remembered my sophomore winter. I didn't have a winter coat.

I had scavenged two oversized jackets from the campus donation bin. There was a faint lipstick stain on one of the collars.

I washed them three times, but the mark wouldn't come out.

I used to walk across campus with my head down, terrified someone would realize I was wearing clothes from a charity bin.

That was the same winter I got that terrible fever.

A hundred and three degrees. My entire body felt like it was on fire, and every bone in my body ached like it was being pricked with needles.

I reached into my pocket. I only had seven dollars in my account.

Just a co-pay at the student clinic was twenty dollars. Tests would cost even more.

I couldn't afford to go.

I drank a massive bottle of tap water, pulled the thin blanket over my head, and tried to sweat it out.

The next day, the fever went down a bit, but by the third day, it spiked again. It kept fluctuating.

My roommate, Chloe, couldn't watch me suffer anymore. She tried to drag me to the hospital.

I refused, fighting her off with everything I had. In the end, she secretly slipped me a box of ibuprofen.

I rationed those pills, taking only half a tablet at a time.

It took five days for the fever to break, but the cough lingered. I hacked my lungs out for two months.

During that time, I desperately took on any gig I could find, saving every single penny.

Once, when I was completely out of food money, I secretly went to a local clinic to donate blood plasma.

They gave me fifty dollars.

When I walked out, my legs were so shaky I could barely stand. I had to lean against the brick wall for ten minutes before I could walk.

Back in my dorm, I ate a dry bagel with some tap water, thinking to myself:

"Noah must be struggling just like me right now. After all, he only has two hundred dollars."

I had even sent him a text: [Hey Noah, how are things? I saved up a little money. Do you need me to Venmo you fifty bucks?]

He replied: [No need, Natalie. I'm doing great.]

Of course he was doing great. Three thousand dollars a month is a luxury.

I was such a pathetic fool.