They say beauty doesn't matter, that the world sees beyond the surface. But the truth is, pretty faces always win. That's the case for Lài Mǐn-huá. She learns this the hard way.
Since the day she's hit by a speeding car—her legs crushed, her body broken—she's been invisible.
Once, her shy smile and soft features turned heads. Now, people avert their gaze, as if her scars and wheelchair are too much to bear. The whispers that follow her aren't admiration but pity, laced with discomfort.
Beauty isn't just about looks; it's the passport to being seen, to mattering. For Mǐn-huá, the world moves on, leaving her behind in silence louder than words.
Her betrothed, Shǐ Gèng-xīn, promises her the world. But promises, like petals in the wind, are fleeting. These days, he spends his time with Hào Jié, his sweet plum, the girl who was his childhood sweetheart.
Mǐn-huá knows she can't compete—not with her broken body, not with her scarred face. Hào Jié is everything she isn't: radiant, whole, untouched by tragedy. The whispers of their laughter reach her ears like distant thunder, a reminder of the life she'll never have. Love, like beauty, is meant for others, not for someone like her.
Sitting in her room, she stares at the piano, untouched since the accident.
"Jiejie and crispy fried dough balls."
The voice is cheerful, too cheerful. It grates against her ears like nails on a chalkboard.
Mom.
The word hangs in the air, suffocating her. Hào Jié dares to call that woman "Mom," as if it's her right. Mǐn-huá's jaw tightens, her nails digging into the arms of her wheelchair.
How dare she? How dare Hào Jié waltz into her home, sit at her table, and call her mother Mom? The woman who nursed Mǐn-huá through endless nights of pain, who held her as she screamed through surgeries and therapy sessions. That woman belongs to her. Not to Hào Jié, the perfect, unscarred interloper.
Yet there's Hào Jié, her voice ringing through the house as if she owns it.
"I'm not hungry. Go away. Leave me alone," Mǐn-huá yells, her voice cracking.
"Jiejie, are you sure? There's enough for seconds..."
"Don't call me that! I'm not your Jiejie! Leave me alone!"
Silence follows, then the sound of Hào Jié's receding footsteps.
Mǐn-huá exhales, her nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in the wooden armrests.
That girl is a stranger, an interloper, a parasite feeding on the warmth of their family.
Downstairs, the family flinches at the sound of glass shattering and furniture crashing against the floor.
"Mom... is Jiejie okay?" Hào Jié whispers, clutching her chopsticks tightly. Her innocent face is etched with worry. "She didn't want to eat dinner tonight."
Mrs. Lai places a gentle hand on Hào Jié's shoulder, though her expression betrays unease. "She's fine, Jié. She's just... resting."
"Resting?" Hào Jié frowns. "She's always resting. Why is she angry all the time?"
Mrs. Lai hesitates, glancing toward the staircase. In a low voice, she replies, "Before the accident, she was someone extraordinary. A pianist—a prodigy. People traveled from far away to hear her play. She even had an international tour scheduled. But then..."
Mrs. Lai's voice breaks slightly. "Then the accident happened. A car came out of nowhere. Her legs were crushed. She almost didn't survive. Everything she worked so hard for—gone in an instant. The tour was canceled, and no one wanted to sign her anymore."
"Why not?!" Hào Jié's voice rises, indignant. "She's amazing. They can't just forget her!"
Mrs. Lai sighs deeply, her eyes distant. "Jié, the world doesn't wait for the broken. No matter how amazing she is, no one wants to see a cripple on the stage. Especially one so angry, so bitter..." Her voice falters.
*
Upstairs, Mǐn-huá sits in the silence she's carved out for herself. She glances at the piano again, her reflection distorted in its glossy surface.
Her family tries. They lower countertops, install stairlifts, rearrange their lives to fit her broken pieces. Yet all she gives them in return is anger, resentment, and pain. She clenches her fists again, her nails biting into her palms.
She decides to go downstairs. As she approaches the stairlift, her hands trembling slightly on the wheels of her chair, she pauses. Her eyes catch sight of her betrothed in the dining room, his face lit with a warmth she hasn't seen in ages. He laughs with Hào Jié, his voice soft and full of affection. She watches as he leans over, carefully adding more food to Hào Jié's bowl—a gesture he never once made for her.
Her chest tightens, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like a stone. For a second, she can't breathe, can't move. The scene before her feels like a cruel confirmation of everything she already knows: she's no longer the center of his world.
The faint hum of the stairlift motor cuts through the quiet murmur of conversation below. The sound turns heads, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. Shǐ Gèng-xīn freezes mid-laugh, his chopsticks suspended in the air, while Hào Jié's bright smile lingers—too sweet, too deliberate.
Mǐn-huá rolls into the dining room with slow, deliberate movements, her eyes heavy-lidded but piercing as they scan the room. She says nothing as she approaches the table, her presence unsettling enough to draw everyone's attention.
"Jiejie! You came down," Hào Jié chirps, her voice bright with forced cheer. "Let me fix you a plate."
Mǐn-huá's gaze flicks to her like she's observing an insect. "Sure, if it keeps you busy." Her tone is flat, neither welcoming nor dismissive, but the indifference in her words carries weight.
Hào Jié blinks, slightly taken aback, before bustling to fix a plate. She places it in front of Mǐn-huá with a nervous smile. "Here you go! Mom made tiger skin eggs, just the way you like them."
Mǐn-huá maneuvers her wheelchair to the end of the table, her usual spot now, but it's far from comfortable. The table is too high; even sitting upright, her chin barely clears the edge.
Without a word, she grabs one, then another pillow, lifting herself awkwardly to position the cushions beneath her. The action is clumsy, her wheelchair shifting slightly with each attempt, but she refuses help when Mrs. Lai moves to assist.
"I've got it," she snaps, her tone sharper than intended.
Once she's settled, her elbows now level with the tabletop, she begins eating with stiff movements, her expression unreadable. The food is there, but the act of eating feels mechanical.
Across the table, Hào Jié fidgets, her bright smile faltering as the tension settles over the room. "Jiejie, do you need anything else? Another pillow, maybe?"
Mǐn-huá's chopsticks pause mid-air. Her gaze cuts to Hào Jié, cold and steady. "No. What I need is for people to stop pretending they know what's best for me."
The words hang in the air, sharp as broken glass. Hào Jié's face falls, her hands fumbling with the napkin in her lap.
Shǐ Gèng-xīn shifts uncomfortably, his voice breaking the silence. "Mǐn-huá, she's just trying to help."
"Help?" Mǐn-huá scoffs, her bitter laugh filling the room. "If she really wanted to help, she'd stop calling me Jiejie like she's part of this family."
The chopsticks clatter against her plate as she sets them down, her appetite vanishing.