Back in school, Phượng was the model class president, always at the top of the class, while I was the opposite—lazy, playful, uninterested in studying. Teachers assigned Phượng to tutor me. Every afternoon, she patiently sat with me, explaining each math problem, each passage in literature. I often joked around and teased her, making her blush and sometimes sad. But she never blamed me; she only smiled and kept teaching. At the time, I never realized how valuable that quiet care truly was.

On graduation day, Phượng unexpectedly handed me a small folded note. Inside were just a few lines: “If one day I go far away, please wait for me. I’ll come back.” I laughed when I read it, thinking it was just a dreamy girl’s whimsy. But in truth, Phượng had silently held feelings for me in her heart. I was simply too blind to notice.

After graduation, Phượng went abroad to study, while I was dragged into a whirlpool of debt when my family fell into hardship. My father’s business collapsed, debts piled up, and my mother became chronically ill. I thought of dropping out, but strangely, each month a sum of money arrived to cover my tuition. I didn’t know who sent it—until I saw Phượng’s name on the remittance slip. My heart froze.

Phượng had been working part-time in a foreign land, scrimping every penny just to send it to me. I was both shocked and ashamed—but quickly grew used to it. I never once asked if she was struggling, nor did I show proper gratitude. I simply thought: she loves me, so she volunteers to help, and I just accept it. My selfishness blinded me—I only saw my own salvation, not her sacrifice.

When Phượng finally returned, she came out of the airport with a radiant face, lugging suitcases full of books and research materials. I had expected a wealthy girl after years overseas, but before me stood a simple, sincere Phượng. I felt let down—she hadn’t brought the “money” I’d secretly hoped for. I smirked coldly, while she still looked at me with loving eyes.

My disappointment turned into indifference. I started avoiding her, using “busy” as an excuse to stay away. Around that time, I met the boss of an event company—a wealthy woman, much older, divorced. She gave me a job, money, luxury trips. Like a moth to flame, I dove into her arms, foolishly believing this was the road to success.

Phượng noticed my change. One afternoon, she waited outside my office gate, handing me a wool scarf she had knitted herself. “You still get cold easily—take care of yourself.” I accepted halfheartedly, then hurried into my boss’s car. From the rearview mirror, I saw Phượng standing still, clutching her fabric bag, her eyes glistening. But at that time, I felt nothing.

In the years that followed, I lived in wealth and indulgence under that woman’s care. Colleagues whispered, mocking me as someone who clung to women to climb up. I ignored them—as long as I had money and status. I thought I was winning, but I didn’t know this was a deep trap waiting to close in. In the end, the company went bankrupt, the boss disappeared, and I lost everything.

Empty-handed, I wandered the streets looking for work. Each step felt heavy, each application returned with rejection. No one stood by me anymore, not even old friends. The long days dragged on like punishment. At night, loneliness and poverty clawed at me.

Then one day, I saw a job posting from a big company. I took a gamble and applied, secretly hoping for a chance. On interview day, I waited outside the director’s office, heart pounding. When the door opened, the sight froze me in place—it was Phượng. Dressed in a sharp suit, her gaze calm yet commanding, she was no longer the gentle girl I once knew, but a powerful director.

I stammered, “Ph… Phượng?” She only gave a faint smile, nodding. “Please come in. I’ll conduct your interview personally.” I sat down, torn between shame and fear. I tried to talk about my work experience, but the more I spoke, the more my weaknesses showed. She listened silently, jotting notes, never mocking me. Sweat rolled down my forehead. Regret gnawed at me.

When the interview ended, she closed her notebook: “We’ll review your application and contact you later.” I stood, feeling like I had been pushed off a cliff. I wanted to apologize, to confess everything, but my throat tightened. I walked out, weighed down with guilt.

The days of waiting were filled with torment. I remembered how she had once quietly supported me, her tearful eyes outside my office long ago. I realized I had lost the only woman who truly loved me. Every night, I stayed awake, wishing for another chance. The phone remained silent.

Then, unexpectedly, a week later, I received a letter—not for another interview, but for signing a probation contract. Joy overwhelmed me, though mixed with worry. Would Phượng only ever see me as just another employee? Still, I decided to seize the chance, even if I had to start from nothing.

From day one, I gave everything. I worked overtime, completed tasks meticulously. My colleagues gradually respected me, no longer mocking. Yet with Phượng, she remained distant, treating me strictly but fairly, as a superior would. It hurt, but I knew I had hurt her too deeply.

One evening, I ran into her in the elevator. Just the two of us. The silence was suffocating. Summoning all courage, I said: “Phượng… I’m sorry. For all those years, I was so wrong.” She looked straight at me: “Sorry doesn’t change the past.” Her words pierced my heart.

From that day on, I sought redemption. I began mentoring new employees, just as she once tutored me. I lived simply, sent money home to my mother. I no longer chased glamour, only hoped to ease her resentment someday.

When a major project crisis struck, I volunteered to stay overnight to resolve it. As Phượng checked in, she found me still working. She paused, silently watching. Our eyes met—no words spoken, yet something stirred. That was the beginning of change.

I know I may never win back her love as before. But at the very least, I want to be a man worthy to stand before her without shame. Every day, I prove it through actions, not empty promises. And slowly, the distance between us is no longer as vast. Whatever the outcome, I have learned the most costly lesson of my life: true love can never be traded for money.