The city shimmered like a thousand restless thoughts under the morning sun.
Max Carter walked through the old iron gates of St. Ainsworth College, his breath fogging in the chill air. To most students here, the college was a playground of luxury and legacy. To Max, it was survival — a chance to climb out of the quiet poverty that had shaped him.
He wasn't born into privilege. His parents had died when he was young, leaving him in the care of his aunt, a tired woman who worked long shifts at a textile factory. Every book Max opened, every grade he earned, was a small thank-you to her sacrifices.
St. Ainsworth had given him a scholarship — a lifeline that came with pressure heavier than gold. To keep it, he had to stay in the top five percent of his class.
So he studied. Harder than anyone.
After lectures, when the others went to cafés or parties, Max hurried to his part-time job at a small coffee shop near the campus gates. The smell of roasted beans clung to his clothes as he wiped tables, served drinks, and saved every coin he could. Some nights he barely ate; other nights, he fell asleep over open textbooks, coffee stains marking his notes.
He didn't complain. The struggle was all he knew — and he believed effort would one day be enough.
Then she appeared.
Her name was Anna Whitmore, and her presence felt like sunlight spilling into a forgotten corner. Her family's name was written in gold across the city — owners of companies, donors to charities, sponsors of the very building where Max studied. She was everything he wasn't: confident, charming, and untouchable.
The first time she spoke to him, it felt like a mistake.
"Max, right?" she asked, her voice smooth and calm. "You're good at Economics, aren't you? I heard you topped the last midterm."
He looked up, confused. People like Anna didn't usually talk to him. "Yeah, I… I guess I did."
She smiled, bright and effortless. "Could you help me before the next exam? I just don't get these theories. You explain things better than the professors."
That was how it began — simple, harmless, almost kind.
Max told himself not to read too much into it. But when she sat beside him in the library, her perfume faint and sweet, when she laughed softly at his clumsy jokes, when she thanked him with that perfect smile — it became impossible not to feel something.
Anna had that rare kind of beauty that made everyone around her smaller. Her words carried weight, her silence even more. And yet, she looked at Max like he mattered.
Or so he thought.
He spent evenings helping her understand formulas, correcting essays, even rewriting some of her reports when she was "too tired." She'd hand him her assignments with a grin, saying, "You're a lifesaver, Max."
Each time, he told himself it didn't matter. That she appreciated him. That maybe, someday, she'd see him for who he really was — not the poor kid with second-hand shoes, but the man who loved her quietly, faithfully, hopelessly.
Sometimes, after work, he'd stop by the college gardens just to catch a glimpse of her leaving class. She always looked so alive — surrounded by friends, laughter, and light. He'd stand in the distance, smiling like a fool, content with just being part of her world in secret.
Max wasn't blind, only hopeful. He didn't notice the small cracks — the way she'd ignore him when others were around, the way her friends smirked when she mentioned his name, the way she only texted him before big tests.
He thought it was affection in disguise.
It was convenience.
Weeks passed, and her grades improved. Professors praised her progress. "You've really been working hard, Anna," one of them said in class. She smiled politely, while Max sat behind her, invisible.
Later that day, she found him in the library.
"You're amazing, Max," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you."
He blushed, mumbling something about teamwork. She leaned closer, resting her chin on her hand. "You're too modest. Really. You should give yourself more credit."
That night, Max walked home under flickering streetlights, heart full, steps light. For the first time, he didn't feel like the world was against him. He believed — truly believed — that maybe someone finally saw him.
But love, especially one-sided, is cruel in its illusions.
Soon, Anna began asking for more. Essays, group projects, reports. "You explain things so clearly," she'd say. "Just write a rough draft. I'll fix it later."
He always agreed.
Then came the day she forgot her assignment at home and asked Max to print a copy for her using his account. He did. Later, when the plagiarism report flagged his ID, she smiled and said, "Oh, must've been a system error. I'll talk to the professor."
She never did.
Max had to fight to clear his name, his scholarship nearly suspended. Anna apologized, tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Max. I didn't think it'd turn into a big deal."
And just like that, he forgave her. Because he wanted to believe she cared.
Because he didn't know she was already laughing about it with her friends.
---
At St. Ainsworth, power flowed in invisible lines — wealth, influence, connections. And Max had none. Rumors started: that he was obsessed with her, that he helped her for attention, that he was desperate to climb the social ladder.
Anna never corrected them.
But she still came to him privately, with soft words and guilty smiles.
"You're not like them," she'd whisper. "You actually care about things that matter."
Every time, those words kept him tied to her.
At night, he'd sit in his small rented room near the café, studying under a flickering bulb, her laughter echoing in his memory. His aunt would call sometimes, tired but proud. "You're doing so well, Max. Just a little longer and life will change."
He'd smile, even when his chest ached. "Yeah, Aunt May. I'm doing fine."
But inside, something was changing. Slowly, quietly.
He began to notice how Anna only talked about herself — her parties, her grades, her world. When he mentioned his work or his aunt, she'd listen politely, then steer the topic away.
Still, he stayed. Because sometimes, she'd look at him and smile like she meant it.
---
One evening, after his shift, Max saw her across the street with her friends. She didn't notice him at first. Her laughter was loud, careless, and beautiful.
Then one of her friends said something that made her grin.
"Don't tell me you still hang out with that scholarship boy?"
Anna smirked. "Oh, Max? He's harmless. I just use his notes. He actually thinks I like him — can you believe that?"
Her friends laughed. She laughed too.
Max froze. The world tilted, sound slipping away. For a moment, he thought he'd misheard. But then he saw her — the same smile he'd fallen for — twisted into something cruel.
He walked away before the tears could reach his eyes. The wind bit his face as he hurried through the empty streets, his steps unsteady, his chest hollow.
He reached his small room and sat down at his desk, staring at his open notebook. The words blurred. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the pages apart. But he didn't.
He just sat there, silent.
Hours passed. The city slept. The world went on.
And Max — poor, brilliant, broken Max — finally learned what betrayal felt like.
He whispered to himself,
"I thought love was supposed to make you stronger."
Outside, the night offered no answer. Only the hum of faraway traffic and the quiet, familiar sound of dreams collapsing.
---