Maverick was two years ahead of me in school. It was during the freshman orientation that I first laid eyes on him, and in that fleeting moment, I fell for him. Love at first sight.

When I first saw him, he was wearing a crisp white shirt and black casual trousers. He stood at an impressive six feet with a lean, upright frame, as straight and elegant as a poplar tree. He emerged from the path lined with lush camphor trees, dappled sunlight catching on him as if the universe were conspiring to cast him in gold. From a distance, he raised a hand and waved at me with a smile so bright, his teeth like pearls and his eyes brimming with light.

It was impossible not to feel moved.

Later, when we started seeing each other, I learned he was in the Business School, while I belonged to the School of Foreign Languages. On the day of the orientation, he’d mistakenly assumed I was a new student in his department. His mistake led to him helping me carry my luggage all the way to my dormitory.

He confessed that it wasn’t until we reached the dorm building that he realized I wasn’t one of his incoming freshmen. But by then, he was already smitten—too far gone to turn back. “The moment I saw you,” he said, “I knew: if I let you walk out of my life, I’d regret it forever.”

Maverick pursued me with an earnestness that was as romantic as it was disarming.

In the dead of winter, when I would inevitably linger too long in the warmth of my bed, he’d wake up early—well before the sun—to line up at the campus cafeteria. He’d buy freshly steamed mushroom and vegetable buns, tucking them inside his coat to keep them warm against the morning chill. Then he’d wait patiently outside the girls' dormitory until I eventually shuffled downstairs. By the time I took my first bite, the buns were always still steaming.

When we went on hiking trips, he’d haul a backpack stuffed with snacks, fruit, and—most importantly—a thermos of cold water alongside another of hot. “Whatever you want to drink,” he’d tell me, “I’ll have it ready.” He made me feel like a cherished princess, tenderly indulged and unconditionally loved.

This was just who he was—gentle, attentive, unfailingly devoted. Every little gesture deepened my dependence on him.

Maverick’s background couldn’t have been more different from mine. He grew up in a remote rural village. His father had passed away early; his mother, widowed and alone, had struggled to raise him and his three older sisters, all of whom were already married with families of their own. Their household scraped by on little. Once, he said to me, "Zee, you can’t possibly understand what it feels like to lie awake during storms, fearing your roof might cave in. Growing up surrounded by hardship makes you cherish the ones you love even more. And it teaches you to honor your parents at all costs."

I remembered a quote I’d once read: those who grow up in adversity either develop a distorted perspective, distrusting the world and hoarding their possessions, or acquire a rare empathy, a larger-than-life capacity for kindness because they’ve tasted the bitterness of life themselves. I knew Maverick belonged firmly to the latter group. I was proud of him and the man he was.

That summer, during his second year of graduate school, Maverick worked night and day in the sweltering heat, dressed in a stifling mascot costume handing out flyers in the square, just to scrape together enough money to buy me a birthday necklace. When I brought him lunch one day, I found him drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. But he just grinned at me, his boyish exuberance undimmed, and said, “It’s not hot at all.”

“Zee,” he promised, “I know I can’t buy you extravagant gifts now, but trust me. I’ll work harder and harder until I can give you the life you deserve.”

He proposed to me with that fiery determination in his eyes, a vow that seemed as eternal as the heavens.

The day I took Maverick home to meet my parents and tell them about our engagement, I wanted their blessing more than anything.

It was his first meeting with my parents, a formal dinner that left him uncharacteristically nervous. Maverick, typically poised and assured as the president of the student council, was suddenly fidgety and awkward, his usual charisma draped under a veil of hesitation.

Midway through dinner, he pulled me aside onto the balcony, visibly uneasy. "Zee," he whispered, “why didn’t you tell me your father is the dean of our Business School?"

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I teased, “If I’d told you, would you still have chased after me?”

With all the seriousness in the world, he replied, “Of course! I fell for you—not for who your father is.”

I snuggled into his chest, smiling against his shirt. "Exactly. Which is why none of it matters."

But after he left that evening, my father called me into his study for a talk. He urged me to think carefully about marriage, pointing out that Maverick and I came from two vastly different backgrounds. “Marriage isn’t something you decide on a whim,” he warned. “This is a lifelong commitment. Do you really understand the man you’re about to spend the rest of your life with?”

I thought he was being snobbish, dismissing Maverick for his modest origins, and I lashed out. "You’re such a traditionalist, Dad! You’re no better than those capitalist snobs who obsess over matching social classes!"

Shaking his head, my father said gently, “Zee, this has nothing to do with his background. I’m saying this because I want you to go into this with clear eyes. A marriage born from passion alone won’t last. Know the person you’re committing to.”

Ultimately, I heeded my parents’ advice and postponed our wedding, agreeing with Maverick that we’d marry after I finished graduate school. Ever wise and understanding, Maverick embraced the delay, holding me close as he said, “Zee, I’ll take this time to prove to your parents that they can trust me—that I’m worthy of being your partner for life.”

But fate had other plans. The following summer, both my parents died in a car accident. There wasn’t even time to say goodbye.

I was devastated, drowning in grief day after day. Maverick stayed by my side through it all, holding me as I wept and whispering over and over, “Zee, you’re not alone. You have me. I’m here, always, forever.”

Three months later, we registered our marriage. It was a quiet affair; we were still in mourning, so there was no wedding ceremony. Instead, we went to my parents’ graves, knelt down together, and paid our respects.

Maverick knelt before their headstones, pressing his forehead to the earth as he solemnly vowed, “I promise to take care of Zee for the rest of my life.”

But the cruel truth is, words—no matter how heartfelt—mean little against the test of time.

By our second year of marriage, he had betrayed me.

And the betrayal came while I was pregnant.