Grayson trailed after Jasmine at an unhurried pace.
They walked all the way to a small lake on campus, a quiet spot bordered by dense thickets that screened the view. Beyond the broad "Mirror Lake," hazy figures drifted in the distance. Jasmine sat down facing the water, then carefully took out the vanilla ice cream she'd bought and ate it in small spoonfuls.
Grayson stopped a short distance behind her. Watching her, he shook his head: although born into poverty, she lacked that gritty resilience so often found in children of humble means. Two hundred yuan was a substantial sum for her—and she'd spent it on a tiny cup of ice cream.
After a few cautious licks, Jasmine placed the cup on the grass beside her. Then she crossed her arms, wrapped them around her shoulders, and bowed her head. Her dark hair fell like a silken curtain around her face. After a moment, Grayson saw her shoulders trembling.
He frowned—was she crying?
Before he could think further, Jasmine's voice rang out, directed at the sky: "I'm sorry, Mom. I can't go on… Thank you for everything you've done for me."
Now Grayson was really puzzled. Was she mentally unwell? Her words and behavior were so strange: earlier, when those three girls had bullied her, she'd remained silent; and now she spoke of her mother, of not being able to go on. He could only assume she'd lost her mind.
Sighing heavily, Grayson decided it was best to leave—this was too odd. He turned to go.
Suddenly, Jasmine sprang to her feet and began wading into the lake. At first Grayson thought her behavior further evidence of mental illness—and he still hadn't processed that she might be suicidal. But as she ventured deeper, water lapping at her waist, then her chest, with no sign of halting, something awful clicked in his mind: was she trying to drown herself?
There was no one around; this hidden spot was as quiet as she'd sought. Without a second thought, Grayson plunged in with a splash, swimming hard toward Jasmine. He reached her side and grabbed her.
"Let go of me! Let me die!" Jasmine screamed, resisting fiercely even as the water closed over her shoulders.
Grayson ignored her struggling, keeping hold of her arms until he dragged her back to shore.
"Why did you save me? Why won't you let me die?" Jasmine's eyes blazed as she glared at him, her gaze barely containing resentment.
Grayson was struck by how even her anger was beautiful—her damp hair clung to her face, droplets sliding down her brow, tears and lake water mingling on her cheeks like a spring rain on blossoms. Her eyes, usually soft and poetic, now flashed with wounded pride.
But Grayson's patience snapped. Anger welled up—not at her, but at her actions. "Why did you try to kill yourself? Have you thought about how devastated your parents would be? Have you considered their feelings?" he demanded.
"You're full of it," Jasmine retorted, wrapping her arms around herself.
"No—listen!" Grayson pressed on. "Your parents worked so hard to raise you, to pay for your tuition and board. You owe it to them not to end it all! And look at you—spending so recklessly on an expensive ice cream when your family can't afford it! Have you any idea how hard they struggle to earn money?"
He let out a torrent of words, furious at her perceived waste and disregard. He expected her to burst into further rage. Instead, Jasmine's eyes reddened, and in an instant tears broke free as if a dam had burst.
"No—don't you dare talk about my parents! Don't you dare!" she sobbed, burying her face, her shoulders shaking even harder than before. "So what if I ate one Häagen‑Dazs? I'm going to die! I'm leaving this world! At least let me have one ice cream before I go! Why does everyone condemn me? Kayla and her friends call me vain; students mock me for craving luxury—and now you accuse me of hedonism! But I'm not like that!"
Between tears, she slumped to the ground. "Every day I eat the cheapest food in the cafeteria. Sometimes I live on a single piece of bread with peanut butter—and I'm too ashamed to eat in public, so I hide the peanut butter in the bushes and come here to eat in secret."
With trembling hands, Jasmine reached into the thicket and produced a half‑empty jar of peanut butter. "I've never owned pretty clothes or cosmetics or cute toys—no handbags, no jewelry. I've never eaten anything nice, not even snacks…" Her voice cracked.
"But I'm still a girl—I like these things too. I have cravings. Today I thought, if I'm going to die, I want to taste Häagen‑Dazs just once, so I won't have regrets when I go. Isn't that fair? Why do you blame me?" Her crying became wails of despair.
Grayson watched in stunned pity. She was so fragile in her sobs that she seemed like a paper figure in the wind, as if any breath might blow her away. The tragedy of it hit him like a blow: she needed that one taste to feel alive—and yet she'd faced cruelty from others on top of her own desperation.
Grayson's heart ached; he felt guilt that he'd nearly left her there. He stepped forward gently. "I'm sorry," he said, offering her a tissue. "But you don't have to do this. Don't you think of how it would hurt your mother?"
Jasmine sniffled but her tears still flowed. "I've never known my father—just my mother," she whispered. Grayson realized she was being raised by a single parent, his sympathy deepening.
"But think of your mother's pain," he urged softly.
She dabbed her eyes. "I know… If I die, she'll be heartbroken. But I see no way out. Only death can solve all this. I told her I was sorry before I jumped in…"
Jasmine's voice trailed off as fresh tears welled. Grayson remembered her words to the sky and felt a stab of regret that he'd mistaken her for a lunatic.
"No problem is insurmountable," he said gently. "Please—tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."
This time his plea was sincere—far more than obligation, it came from a place of genuine care. He felt remorse for his earlier misjudgment and fear at how close she'd come to dying.
Jasmine looked up, meeting his earnest gaze. He seemed different from the others—kind, not dismissive. Still, she hesitated: he wore simple clothes too, clearly just another poor student. Her problems were too great; telling him might only endanger him—or disappoint him.
"You can't help me," she said, turning away.
"I understand why you feel that way," Grayson said softly. "You don't know I'm actually from a wealthy family—or how much I could do. Please trust me—just tell me."
Jasmine's shoulders trembled. She stared across the lake as if seeing the world anew, while Grayson offered a steady presence.