I Paid the Bill, They Paid Me Pity

“Girls like her are truly rare these days!”

“It’s hard to find someone with such a pure and selfless heart now.”

“That roommate of hers doesn’t know how lucky he is. He clearly doesn’t appreciate her.”

I stared at the stream of comments on the forum. No names were mentioned, but anyone familiar with our dorm would know exactly who they were talking about.

Without saying it outright, the entire post painted me as the villain—a heartless, money-obsessed girl corrupted by luxury.

Meanwhile, Sophia had somehow become the picture of purity, the glowing saint in everyone’s eyes.

That’s when doubts started creeping into my mind.

Could all this really be just a coincidence?

Why did my USB drive suddenly fail right at the most critical moment?

Why did Sophia report to the counselor immediately after I got scolded?

And how was the forum post published with such perfectly timed precision?

The questions swirled in my head, but there were no answers.

A few days later, I woke up feeling a strange, burning sensation on my face.

The second I saw myself in the mirror, I nearly screamed.

My skin was red and swollen, blotched with angry rashes—like I’d been attacked by a swarm of bees.

I was stunned. I always used LP, a luxury skincare brand that costs more than most people’s monthly salary. How could I possibly have an allergic reaction to something so high-end?

“Lauren, what happened to your face?” Sophia asked, her voice laced with surprise.

The other roommates gathered around, eyes wide in concern.

“Maybe… an allergic reaction,” I muttered, trying to hide my face with my hands.

“It’s definitely the chemicals in those fancy products you use,” Sophia announced immediately. “I’ve told you before—expensive things are often loaded with additives.”

She crouched by her bed and pulled out a small, nondescript jar.

“This is my grandmother’s secret herbal remedy. All-natural ingredients. Great for skin problems—it’s been in my family for generations.”

The roommates gasped in admiration.

“Sophia, you know how to make ointments, too?”

“That’s so impressive! You don’t see people preserving traditional remedies anymore.”

I looked at the unimpressive little jar with hesitation. Every instinct in me resisted. But my face burned and itched, and I was desperate for relief.

“…Thanks,” I finally said, taking it from her.

Sophia smiled gently. “Lauren, this is nature giving you a wake-up call. Maybe it’s time to let go of your obsession with appearances and wealth.”

Later that day, I went to the most reputable dermatology hospital in the city.

I managed to get an appointment with a top specialist.

After a thorough examination, the doctor reviewed my test results, flipped through my records, and finally said:

“Your condition appears to be stress-induced dermatitis.”

“Stress?” I asked, confused.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “This often results from intense mental pressure. It’s very common among young people dealing with academic stress and fast-paced lifestyles.”

He scribbled on his prescription pad. “Try to relax, avoid overthinking, and reduce emotional tension.”

I stood frozen, holding the diagnosis slip in my hand.

Mental stress? That’s it?

When I returned to the dorm, Sophia snatched the paper from my hand. I noticed a flicker of something in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe—but it disappeared before I could name it.

“The doctor says you have a psychological illness,” she said softly, sitting down beside me.

“Lauren, you’ve been too caught up in luxury. You rely on money for everything, but it can’t buy true peace of mind.”

She looked at me with sympathy. “You surround yourself with expensive brands, but are you actually happy?”

“Your body is crying out. Your soul is begging for a break.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Sophia’s right,” one said.

“Health is more important than wealth,” another chimed in.

My hands trembled as I held the diagnosis.

Even a doctor had said it was psychological.

Was I truly just overthinking everything?

Had I developed some kind of mental problem?

That night, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep.

My face itched terribly, and the rash had spread. I kept fighting the urge to scratch.

Meanwhile, Sophia was sleeping peacefully, her breathing calm and steady.

And then I remembered something.

Last night, after I came back from my shower, she insisted on cleaning up the sink.

She said I had too many bottles and that she wanted to help me organize.

She had touched all my skincare products—each one. She even said she wanted to check the ingredient lists on the packaging.