Charlotte looked at the wall, her eyes widening as she realized what she was staring at. It was a framed photo—not a professional headshot, but an old, slightly faded picture of two teenagers in formal wear. One was the popular cheerleader she once was; the other was the boy who had been bullied into oblivion.
“You…” she whispered, her hands shaking as she pulled back. “You’re… the boy from the prom. The one who survived the crash.”
“I am,” I said softly. “I never forgot that night, Charlotte. You didn’t just go to a dance; you saved my life when I had nothing left to live for.”
She looked around the room, taking in the mahogany furniture, the awards for my software patents, and the view of the city skyline. She looked back at me, tears welling in her eyes, her posture shrinking in shame. “I didn’t recognize you. You changed so much. And here I am, looking like a disaster, struggling to pay for my brother’s insulin. I didn’t come here for charity. I just needed this shift.”
