Refused to Play Victim — She Pushed Me

Professor Anderson sighed, his eyes filled with both pity and complexity.

“All right, I’ll help you with the paperwork.”

Around us, students lingered to watch the spectacle. My face burned with shame.

As soon as we stepped out of the office, Laura Parker immediately wiped away her tears and pulled out her phone.

“David, you won’t believe what happened today… Emily tried to plagiarize just to get a scholarship. I had to drag her to the professor’s office to apologize. I’ve never been so humiliated as a mother…”

On the other end, Uncle David’s voice was full of sympathy. Soon after, another transfer arrived.

Then it was Aunt Margaret’s turn. “Emily is being reckless—I’ll discipline her… Yes, yes, children must be strictly managed…”

One call after another, and with each call, more “comfort money” came pouring in.

I stood silently beside her, watching that smug expression spread across her face.

My heart bled.

Later, Professor Anderson lowered his voice to me.

“Emily, there’s a library off-campus that needs someone to help organize books. Two hours a day, fifteen dollars an hour. Given your situation, this might be a quiet fit.”

I froze.

“Don’t worry—just say it’s for a study group.”

I looked into his encouraging eyes and nodded firmly.

Back at the dorm, Sophie Miller and the others gathered around me.

“Emily, we’ll cover for you,” Sophie said, grabbing my hand. “If your mom asks, we’ll tell her we were all studying together.”

“That’s right—we’ll take turns walking you to the library.”

Their kindness made my nose sting with tears.

My first day at the part-time job, I was nervous beyond words.

After I finished stacking books, the librarian handed me thirty dollars.

“Good work. See you tomorrow.”

I clutched the bills, my hands trembling.

It wasn’t pity money from relatives—

It was mine.

I couldn’t stop touching the edges of the bills, over and over, relishing their texture.

Passing by a bubble tea shop, I hesitated a long time before finally buying a plain milk tea.

The first sip—the sugary sweetness burst across my tongue.

My eyes instantly burned with heat.

Since my father Michael had died, a cup of bubble tea had become a luxury.

I hid the rest of the money in my shoe insole and lay in bed that night, smiling secretly to myself.

I finally had a secret.

By the second week, I grew bolder.

With my earnings, I bought a movie ticket and sat alone in the back corner watching a comedy.

The jokes on screen tugged at the corners of my lips.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified someone might hear me laugh too loudly.

…

“Emily, your journal entries lately don’t feel right.”

Laura flipped through my Misery Journal, her brows knitting.

“The sadness lacks soul. Are you phoning it in?”

My heartbeat spiked. “No, I write seriously every day.”

“Seriously?” she sneered. “Look at this line: ‘I starved again today.’ It’s too flat! Too plain!”

She slammed the notebook onto the table.

“When you used to write about being hungry, the despair dripped off the page. Now what? Are you sneaking food behind my back?”

Panic surged. “No, really, I didn’t.”

“Then why are you coming home so late? Since when do study groups run until eight o’clock?”

“Because… the coursework is heavier.”

She stared at me for a long time, her sharp gaze pinning me until I couldn’t meet her eyes.

The next day after work, I passed by a café and caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye—

Laura sat at the window, phone in hand, her camera aimed straight at me.

My steps froze.

Then, forcing myself to pretend I hadn’t noticed, I quickened my pace and left.

When I got home—

“Emily, you’ve worked hard. No need to write in your journal tonight.”