Love Lost to Illness and Lies

I drifted into a hazy dream, returning to the year I turned eighteen. Back then, I was the perfect good girl, the pride of my parents, teachers, and classmates. Meanwhile, Armani Morrison was nothing but a high school dropout with a tough exterior. Our lives seemed destined to run parallel without crossing—until fate thought otherwise.

That summer, I stumbled upon Armani in an alley near school, caught up in a fight and tending to his injuries. He sat on the ground, his white T-shirt stained red around his abdomen. Hearing my footsteps, he looked up at me, his handsome features barely visible beneath the bruises. I offered to help him up, but he told me tersely to get lost. Ignoring his words, his pale face from the blood loss compelled me. Determined, I helped him to his feet and supported him step by step to the hospital.

I watched as the doctor bandaged his wounds and settled his medical bills before leaving. Sitting on the hospital bed, he watched me with those striking eyes, a tear-shaped mole at the corner shimmering slightly. He introduced himself slowly, "Armani Morrison."

I nodded, acknowledging him. As I turned to leave, his impatient voice stopped me. "What's your name?"

"Mikayla Morrison," I replied.

That was our first encounter.

Later, on a day when some thugs cornered me in an alley after school, Armani came to my rescue. With a relaxed air, he returned the money I'd spent on his medical bills. For the next few days, he lingered in that alley, making sure those troublemakers remembered I was under his protection, untouchable by anyone else.

From then on, we gradually became closer. I'd occasionally bring him food, like sandwiches and spiced honey cake, and he'd often walk me home. When my parents found out, they insisted I stop spending time with him. But for Armani, I disobeyed them for the first time—like I would countless times afterward.