Cruel words can wound in ways that leave no visible scars, but their sting lingers long after they’re spoken. I learned this one evening at a restaurant when three well-dressed women mocked a hardworking waitress for “smelling poor.” The room froze, stunned by the harshness. No one moved—until my boyfriend stood up and did something I’ll never forget.
My name is Anna, and this story doesn’t start in the restaurant but in a university library. That day, everything seemed to go wrong. Coffee spilled in my bag, soaking my notes. The bus broke down, forcing me to walk. Finally, the library printer decided to rebel, jamming mid-print as students waited impatiently behind me.
Frustrated, I gave the printer a light tap. That’s when Jack appeared. With a calm smile, he crouched beside the machine. “Mind if I try?” he asked. A few button presses later, the printer whirred to life.
“Magic,” I whispered.
“Not magic,” he said. “IT.”
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