Maikling Kwento at Nobelang Emotional Realism

"Eve Spencer, I just got into an accident. I hit someone, and I think he's your son!" The day after getting her driver's license, my best friend, Esther Lawson, insisted on driving alone to pick up her son from kindergarten. I warned her that the road was full of heavy trucks and told her to practice a few more days. She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I'm a great driver!" She floored the gas pedal and sped off. Not long after, she called me. She was crying so hard she could barely breathe. She said she hit a child at the kindergarten. The boy's face was covered in blood, and he looked like my son. I froze. My son had a fever today. He didn't even go to kindergarten. So who had she hit?

To save up for my wife’s expensive asthma medication, I worked the dangerous high-rise job around our apartment complex, even on a day with winds strong enough to knock someone off their feet. However, that was when I accidentally witnessed my wife cheating on me with her ex-boyfriend, and to entertain him, she picked up a fruit knife and slowly cut through my safety rope. My body slammed into the ground so hard that the impact shattered the bones in my leg. Only later did I learn the truth: the one with asthma wasn’t my wife at all—it was her first love. All the money I’d been saving for her? She had been giving him every cent. Eventually, the same cold, proud woman I once married ended up on her knees in front of me, begging for help. I called the building security over and had them drag her out. “Get that filth out of here,” I said. “It’s hurting my eyes.”

My dad always calls me a lazy bum. It is because I often fall asleep without warning. I sleep in class, while eating, and even while crossing the street. My homeroom teacher, Yvonne Smith, suggests that he take me to a hospital for an examination. But Dad scoffs and says, "He's just staying up all night playing on his phone." After that, he confiscates my phone and removes the lock from my bedroom door. Every time I get sleepy, he slaps me. I don't want to be hit, and I don't want to make Dad angry. So, I start pinching my thighs, pulling out my hair, and even rubbing hand sanitizer spray under my nose to stay awake. But whenever the overwhelming drowsiness hits, nothing can stop it. On the day of the final exams, Dad happens to be one of the invigilators. I bite my lip until it bleeds and silently beg myself inwardly, "Just this once, please stay awake." Still, I fail to fight off the sleepiness. Suddenly, someone flips over my desk. The chair tips with it, and I crash to the floor. My temple slams into the corner of the desk, and darkness instantly floods my vision. Dad stands over me, furious and disappointed. "Zach Davies, are you really so obsessed with sleeping that you don't even care about your final exams? If you're that lazy, then stay down there and keep sleeping!" I lie sprawled across my exam paper as my vision slowly fades away. Dad, I think I am going to sleep for a very long time…

After I got a second shot at life, the very first thing I did was enroll in an intensive weight-loss boot camp. In my past life, my boyfriend was always on my case about my weight. He flat-out told me he wouldn't put a ring on it unless I got down to a hundred pounds. I tried every diet and workout plan out there—I pushed myself to the edge—but instead of losing, I packed on even more pounds. Meanwhile, my so-called best friend ate cheeseburgers, fries, and pizza like it was her job and still dropped from 130 pounds to a hundred in less than a month. The second she hit that magic number, my boyfriend's head turned. They started sneaking around behind my back. When I finally confronted them, they shoved me off a rooftop. It wasn't until after I died that I discovered the truth: my "best friend" had linked herself to a weight-transfer system. Every single pound I struggled to lose went straight to her. And every ounce of fat she should have gained? It landed right back on me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the exact day my boyfriend gave me his hundred-pound ultimatum. With every memory of my past life intact, I couldn't help but smile. My best friend wants to be skinny, does she? Well then, let's see how she likes being nothing but skin and bones. Let's see if forty-five pounds is skinny enough for her.

Everyone in the city knows that Michael Shaw despises me to my core. He even takes pleasure in humiliating me in public at banquets. He sneers, "My family made its fortune through gambling. Nancy Jackson is just a pretty face who can't even recognize all the suits in a deck of cards. Marrying her would be worse than marrying an inflatable doll that at least reacts!" Still, the marriage agreement between our families comes first. On top of that, the fake heiress, who is his true love, can't have children. So, he forces me to gamble with him. "If you lose, I want your womb to bear me a child. You have to get a C-section without anesthesia," he demands cruelly. I've long had enough of him always giving me a hard time. A soft laugh escapes my lips, and I reply, "Fine. If I win, then I want your manhood, Michael." The crowd bursts into laughter. Everyone says that I'm overestimating myself. Everyone knows Michael is the best gambler in the city. I lower my eyes and say nothing. Indeed, he is one of the best. After all, five years ago on a stormy night, I was the one who held those hands and taught him how to cheat for the first time to stay alive.

My ex, Jason Buckley—the guy I dumped five years ago—still sent tiny cash transfers to check if I existed. I never responded. This time, I tapped accept by accident. A second later, he lost it. "Wow, quick reflexes. What guy's been keeping you busy these past five years? Made you this cheap? Knew you couldn't get over me. "You took my 'let's fix this' gift, so we're signing marriage papers tomorrow. "My new dad's loaded—the richest in Seavora—and he can't wait to see me married." I just stared at the one-dollar payment on my screen and left him on read. The next day, he showed up at my place in Seavora City with his mom, parked right in the doorway. "This is gonna be our house, right? If you're not just after my family's money, transfer it into my name first." Yeah. He'd officially lost it. We broke up five years ago. My son's three. And if he's the heir to the richest man... what does that make my husband?

On my way back from a business trip, I scrolled past a video. A newborn was abandoned by the roadside, crying so hard. As a first time dad, I couldn’t help looking at the baby a little longer. I froze because that baby looked exactly like my son. I had booked the best confinement center in the city for my wife. I had checked them into a VIP suite. I had employed a nanny and a nursing team to look after my wife and my son full-time. I broke out in a cold sweat. My wife didn’t check her phone, so I immediately called the center's manager, Ms. Thompson. She laughed lightly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Smith. Your wife and baby are perfectly fine. They just fell asleep.” The next second, she sent me a photo of my sleeping baby. I stared at the tiny, unfamiliar face. In that instant, the blood in my body turned to ice. I was only gone for four days. So how was my son a different person?

During the Labor Day team retreat, I had booked out the entire top floor of the Grand Summit Hotel. Yet, when my fiancee, Serena Wagner, found out, she was enraged. "Matthew Grant, are you out of your mind? Spending over 800,000 dollars to rent a place for one day? Since you're so rich and have nowhere else to splurge, just let me help you spend it!" Then, she called over our intern, Dylan Foster. She pointed at him and started yelling at me. "He only makes 6000 a month as an intern. Why don't you give him this money instead?" I looked at my colleagues standing nearby, their faces clearly uncomfortable. I replied calmly, "His salary isn't low compared to industry standards. Besides, the team-building budget belongs to everyone. Why should I give it all to him?" However, the moment those words left my mouth, Serena exploded. "I'm your finance director and your future wife! Of course, I get to control where your money goes. If you don't agree, then let's call off the engagement!" With that, she stormed off with Dylan. I silently picked up a bottle from the floor and poured myself three glasses. The first glass was for her, for being with me through the first half of my life. The second glass was for me, for having a clear conscience in this relationship. The third glass was for both of us. I wished us well as we parted ways and moved on with our separate lives.

My older sister, Candice Channing, was a doctor who was an expert at treating infertility patients. She was always telling me how worried she was about me marrying a man who was not great in bed, which would be equivalent to me marrying into a life of being a widow. That was why she would always seduce every boyfriend I had. After sleeping with them, she would approach me by showing off the love marks on her body. "I've tried him out for you. He's not a considerate lover and refused to let me go even after I told him 'No'. This isn't a man you would want." I broke down every time she did this. After that, I cut ties with her and left for another place. That was when I met Russell Loft, the youngest Captain in the army who was stationed there locally. He was a mature and good-looking man. On the day of our wedding, we arranged a banquet for our guests, and that was when I spotted Candice among the crowd. Candice was now Russell's personal doctor, and she was at the wedding as a guest. "My dear sister, I can't help but worry about the man you're about to marry. Let me try him out for you." She drugged me unconscious and climbed into bed with Russell in the dark. When I woke up and barged into the room with others, my actions caused a commotion among our colleagues. Candice was treated as a third party who destroyed my marriage and was taken away on the spot. When my son turned one, Russell told me he wanted to surprise me, but he took me to an abandoned minefield instead. The moment I stepped on an active mine, I knelt on the ground, begging him to take our son to safety, but Russell looked at me coldly and said, "All Candice wanted before the wedding was to leave me with a memory of her first time in bed with me, but you got her arrested, and she ended up being raped to death by the people in the detention center. She was pregnant with my baby when she died. You and that b*stard child of yours should pay for their lives." That was when I found out that he had fallen for Candice. My son and I died in the explosion, and our bodies were blown to smithereens without leaving behind a intact corpse. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day of my wedding, where Candice appeared as our guest.

Mom always said my entire life ran on luck. When I ranked first in my class, she said, "You just guessed really well." When I won a gold medal, she said, "The judges must've been blind." When I got into Westridge University, she told everyone, "This kid has no real ability, just good luck!" So on my first day of college, she tossed me a book of scratch cards. "Since your luck's so good anyway, might as well let it handle your living expenses too. "You get one book per semester. However much you scratch off is all you get. "And just so you can't come crying to me about being broke, I'm blocking you now. I'll unblock you next semester." With that, she ignored every one of my desperate pleas and blocked me on every single platform. I wanted to cry but could not even manage tears. All I could do was scratch two cards every day. On good days, I would win 20 to 50 dollars. Most days, I won absolutely nothing. I survived by sneaking expired cookies out of my roommates' trash. By the last week of the semester, I had developed severe anemia. As I used every ounce of strength to scratch the final card, I laughed. Mom was right. My luck really was incredible.

I poured my heart and soul into securing a big deal for my wife's law firm. But when I stepped out for a quick coffee break, she fired me on the spot, claiming I'd gone AWOL for too long. "New company rule: ten minutes away from your desk, and you're out. You were gone for ten minutes and five seconds. Now grab your stuff and leave." I sneered and flipped the script, turning over proof of her siphoning funds to buy her intern boy a Maybach to the police. She thought she could burn bridges with me, but this bridge didn't crumble so easily.

Mom always says that depression is nothing more than an illness born of idleness. People who are truly busy studying don't have time to be depressed. So, during my senior year of high school, I lie awake through countless nights, my hair falling out in clumps as I tremble over endless mock papers. Mom only slides another mock exam booklet in front of me. "Finish this booklet, and you won't have time to wallow in self-pity." At family gatherings, my relatives notice that I keep my head down and barely speak. They ask Mom, "Why has she gotten so quiet?" Mom's face darkens at once. "It's because she's guilty about something, duh. Go on. Tell everyone what you've done wrong this time." Later, even my homeroom teacher calls to say I don't seem like myself anymore. The moment Mom hangs up, she rounds on me. "So, now, you've started tattling to your teacher?" It isn't until I collapse before a mock exam that she finally listens to the doctor's advice and brings home a tiny orange tabby. Through the darkest days of my life, that cat becomes my only reason to keep going. Eventually, I make it into college. When I come home for the Independence Day holiday, I step through the door and call out instinctively for him. "Tangy?" No answering meow. Even the cat bed on the balcony is gone. "Stop calling," Mom said flatly. "I dumped him back where I found him the day you left." I stand there, frozen for several seconds before turning and darting outside, only to realize I have no idea where to go. The sounds around me become muffled, as though separated by a pane of glass, drifting farther and farther away. At that moment, my last connection to the world quietly snaps.

I had just moved in when the young male model across the hall called the police. He claimed I had fallen in love with him, turned bitter when he rejected me, and had been harassing him ever since—banging on his door, threatening him, and even trying to sexually coerce him. When the police showed up, he pointed right at me and started yelling, “Pervert! You knock on my door every night! You even use binoculars to spy on me, and you’ve been posting my photos online! “I’ve seen you! Standing by your window, staring at me, always trying to get close. It’s disgusting!” The neighbors gathered around, whispering and pointing at me. Someone even shoved me, calling me shameless. “Women like this are trash.” “She looks normal. Who would've thought she's a creep?” Under everyone’s accusations, I slowly took off my sunglasses, revealing the hollow sockets where my eyes should be. “Officer, how exactly is a blind person supposed to peep at anyone?”

I was the company's marketing director, but my salary had always been only sixteen hundred dollars. One day, Timmy Sunderland from finance accidentally sent the payroll spreadsheet to me by mistake. On it, I saw the lines: Technical Director–10,000 dollars. Marketing Assistant–5,600 dollars. Receptionist–2,000 dollars. It also clearly stated that my salary was ten thousand, but most of it had been deducted and given to Timmy! Only then did I realize that after a decade of service at this company, they still treated me worse than everyone else. I rushed into the office belonging to my boss, Jessica White. "I want an explanation." She said to me, "This is a business decision, and I'm not at liberty to explain anything to you. Haven't you always been the one who understood me the best?" Because I had feelings for Jessica, I gave in. A few days later, when the holiday arrived, I did not rest. I went out to negotiate an investment of five million for the company. I treated the client to dinner and drank with him until I suffered internal bleeding. When I took the receipt of 2,000 dollars to Timmy for reimbursement, he transferred only 100 dollars to me and even said I was just trying to take advantage of the company. Jessica also scolded me to my face. "Only incapable people need to spend that much on clients. Timmy's right, you're just trying to take advantage of the company." This time, I decided not to endure it any longer. In anger, I quit and joined another company. The first project that I was put in charge of was worth over ten million, and Jessica's company was the investment target…

After my SATs are over, I go to the office block with my poverty certificate to apply for a school loan. The staff member glances at my paperwork before turning my application down coldly. "To think that you're already swindling loans from the government at such a young age! High-income families like yours aren't lacking in the money department at all!" At first, I think this is just a misunderstanding. That is, until the staff member passes me the information on my parents. "Your parents have a villa worth 20 million dollars in the city center, whereas your younger brother goes to an elite academy that costs 800 thousand dollars' worth of tuition fees per year! "Tell me, how can someone from your family be eligible to apply for a school loan?" I'm stunned, to say the least. The entire village has raised me since young. For the past 18 years, I've been the only child of an extremely impoverished family. Little do I know that my parents have already formed another family of their own in the city…

On the day of my wedding with Hannah Hawkes, her first love, Lucas Tate, sends his critical notice to her. He mentions that he wants to wear a wedding tuxedo one last time at a wedding before his death. In order to fulfill Lucas' wish, Hannah locks me up in a lounge and gets ready to attend the wedding with him. Her impatient voice echoes outside the door. "Why are you so cold-blooded? Lucas is about to die, you know! What's the harm in letting him have his way?" Some time after that, Freya Jensen, the young woman who lives next door, gets up to the rooftop and begs me to marry her. With red-rimmed eyes, Hannah asks pleadingly, "Are you going to give up on our seven-year relationship because of her?" I merely slap her hand away. "Am I supposed to watch Freya die? It's just a marriage registration. Stop being cold-blooded, will you?"

I spend an entire year preparing to get my daughter, Quincy Lindell, into a top international school. By the time the application review date rolls around, I have all the documents ready. I just need my wife's and my original marriage certificate to seal the deal. However, when I reach the admissions office, my wife, Wendy, blames me for taking matters into my own hands. I am about to explode when the school staff member says with a strange expression, "Mr. Howards, our system shows that you are not Ms. Lindell's spouse." My blood turns to ice. Before I can react, Zachary Shea, who has been quietly standing behind Wendy, passes his wedding certificate to the person in charge. The school staff member nods after checking her computer. "Ms. Lindell, Mr. Shea, your certificate was validated seven and a half years ago. You can now register your child for this school." Seven and a half years ago… That was the date of Wendy's and my engagement party. She held my hand in front of a room full of guests and said that I would be the only man she ever loved. That one sentence was enough to fool me for seven years.

I rush into work this morning and accidentally send the car photos meant for the dealership into the medical intern group chat. The new intern snaps at me. "Dr. Tyson, why are you sending me pictures of my car? Are you jealous and trying to steal attention?" I stop short and ask if she has mixed things up, because the car is mine. She fires back with a whole stack of photos of herself driving a G-class with one hand, plus videos to prove the car in my picture belongs to her. She even tacks on a snide little jab. "You're a shameless, broke wannabe. You want any spotlight you can grab. You think a picture of a car is going to make you the lady of the Reed family?" I frown and turn to my husband, Jackson Reed. "Since when does the Reed family have a second lady of the house?"

My best friend, Cassidy Braun, earned a modest monthly salary of 2,800 dollars, only to constantly trash her doting husband with an annual income of 600,000 dollars, labelling him a broke loser. “That incompetent husband of mine can’t even afford a 20-carat diamond ring! “I have the looks that can bag me a billionaire. I must have been out of my mind to marry that piece of trash.” I chimed in. “You’re right. You’re practically a goddess. Only a Greek God stands a chance with you.” Eventually, Cassidy left her husband and hooked up with a trust-fund kid, just as she wanted. A year later, she was scammed out of every penny she owned and diagnosed with cancer. Fragile and broken, she came to me. “I heard that ex-husband of mine remarried and that he’s loaded now. Judging by the way he used to worship the ground I walked on, I bet he’ll drop the woman in a heartbeat if I ask to get back together.” I gave a dismissive nod while running my fingers along the new Birkin bag my husband had bought. “Oh, absolutely. He’s pretty wealthy now.”

How crazy can night-shift nurses really be? As a doctor, I am well aware of this. That night, while making my rounds, I passed by the break room and heard strange noises from inside. Curious, I took a quick glance and saw two people in white coats pressed closely together, one in front of the other. One of them was Veronica Adams, a nurse widely admired for her beauty and innocence, often referred to as the hospital's 'angel.' When she saw me, she didn’t shy away; instead, she invited me to join them...