The next morning, I finished breakfast early and stood outside the boys' dormitory, waiting for Myles Su.
The sunlight was bright and blinding. I stood still in front of the dormitory, my palms unconsciously damp with sweat. People passed by, chatting and laughing as they headed to class, but my eyes remained fixed on the dormitory door. Last night, the scene of Myles collapsing replayed in my mind over and over—his pale face, the exhaustion he tried so hard to suppress. I couldn't stop worrying about him.
And that question… Where did he go afterward? Why did he leave in such a state?
I always thought Myles was the kind of person who didn't need anyone's concern—cold, self-sufficient, and unshakable. But now I knew better. That calm, indifferent exterior was just a mask. Beneath it, he was likely enduring something alone, something I couldn't yet understand.
But was I simply worried about him? Or had my emotions already gone beyond what I was willing to admit?
I was caught up in these tangled thoughts when he finally appeared.
Dressed in a clean white medical school uniform, his steps steady, his expression indifferent—just like always. It was as if nothing had happened the night before. He walked quickly, eyes downcast, as if he didn't want anyone to notice him. I was about to call out to him when a soft clinking sound interrupted me.
"Clink."
I glanced down and saw a small bottle roll out of his pocket and onto the ground. It lay still on the pavement, a little bit of clear liquid still inside. The label on the bottle immediately caught my attention—
"Semaglutide Injection."
My heart skipped a beat, and my mind buzzed as if struck by lightning. I bent down to pick up the bottle, my fingers trembling slightly from nerves.
"Semaglutide?"
The name was all too familiar. Back when I was struggling with anorexia, I had researched all sorts of quick weight-loss methods. I knew this drug was primarily prescribed for metabolic conditions like diabetes, but its appetite-suppressing and weight-control effects had turned it into a widely abused weight-loss medication. I also knew about its dangerous side effects—nausea, vomiting, and in some cases, severe metabolic complications.
I stared at the bottle in my hand, my gaze drifting to Myles's retreating figure. A surge of mixed emotions swept through me. Why would he need this? Was it to treat some serious health problem? Or was he… hiding something else entirely?
"Myles Su," I called out almost instinctively, my voice trembling with something I couldn't fully identify.
He stopped walking and slowly turned around. When his eyes fell on the bottle in my hand, I saw his expression freeze for a brief moment. It was as if I had caught him in a secret he didn't want anyone to know.
He walked over quickly, his voice low and urgent. "Give it back."
"This is yours?" I didn't move, my fingers tightening around the bottle as I locked eyes with him.
"Yes," he said in a quiet voice, extending his hand. "Hand it over."
"Why do you need this?" I lifted the bottle slightly, holding it between us. "Do you know this drug is often misused for weight loss? But it's primarily for metabolic conditions—like diabetes. What's wrong with your body?"
His gaze wavered for a split second before he quickly regained his composure. His voice dropped even lower, colder. "Renata Ye, this is none of your business."
"None of my business?" I let out a dry laugh, gripping the bottle tighter. "You collapsed just yesterday and now you're pretending like nothing happened. I can see it, Myles—your health isn't fine! You keep everyone at arm's length, but what about yourself? Do you think you can keep going like this?"
"Renata," he said firmly, his tone hardening, "stop asking questions and give me the bottle." He stepped forward, reaching for it.
"Wait a second!" I took a step back, my eyes fixed on his. "What are you hiding? Are you taking this for your health, or…" My voice faltered, a thought I didn't want to believe crossing my mind. "Are you abusing it?"
He froze for a moment, his eyes flashing with something I couldn't quite place—guilt? Panic? But just as quickly, his expression turned cold again, distant. "This has nothing to do with you. You don't understand."
"I don't understand?" My voice trembled, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. "When I was thirteen, I had an eating disorder. I survived on nothing but a few pieces of lettuce each day, my weight dropped to barely thirty kilograms, and one day, I collapsed in gym class. The doctor said if my mom hadn't found out in time, I wouldn't have survived."
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions, but my voice still wavered. "If my mom hadn't saved me, I wouldn't be standing here today. Myles, I know what it's like to push yourself to the edge. You can't keep doing this to yourself. Don't you get it?"
For a moment, he just stared at me, his eyes filled with something I couldn't decipher—shock, maybe even regret. He opened his mouth slightly as if to say something but then stopped.
Then, in one swift motion, he reached out and snatched the bottle from my hand. His movements were quick and decisive, leaving me no time to react.
"It's not what you think," he said, his voice low, almost resigned. He slipped the bottle into his pocket, his gaze turning colder. "Stop asking, and don't get involved."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, his steps hurried and unsteady.
I stood frozen in place, watching his figure disappear into the distance. My heart was pounding, my mind a whirlwind of questions and unease.
What is he hiding? Why does he need that medication? And what kind of secret is he carrying alone?
Just then, my phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down and saw a text from an unknown number:
"Stay out of it."
My fingers trembled, and I nearly dropped my phone. I bit my lip, my gaze flicking back to where Myles had vanished. A chill ran down my spine.