On the day of his elementary school graduation, his parents were tragically killed in a car accident.

  While everyone else was pretending to cry, caught up in the emotions of parting, I watched as our homeroom teacher walked over to him and said a few words. The moment he heard them, he panicked and ran out of the venue toward the hospital. I didn't understand what was happening, so I asked the teacher for an expnation.

  When I found out, I couldn't stop crying.

  I cried for days. Every night, when I closed my eyes, I would see him dressed in mourning clothes, kneeling helplessly in a corner at the funeral. I was so heartbroken that I couldn't sleep.

  Summoning my courage, I told my father that I didn't want to attend a private middle school. Instead, I wanted to go to Changhua Junior High School, up in the Bagua Mountains, where he was enrolling—so I could continue being his friend, look after his emotions, and prevent him from becoming withdrawn or turning into a delinquent.

  Luckily, my father was pleased that I valued our friendship so much and agreed to my request.

  In junior high, he was living with retives and had no money for school lunches, so I brought two lunchboxes from home every day—one for him.

  He wasn't good at studying and loved to goof around, so I would drag him to my house in the evenings, acting as his personal tutor. I made sure he understood the material—whether he wanted to or not.

  It was during those visits that he first noticed the coffee-making equipment scattered around my home. They were treasures my father had collected, as he loved drinking coffee. Out of curiosity, my friend would touch and examine them, and my father, always enthusiastic, began teaching him everything—how to distinguish good coffee beans from bad ones, the art of brewing, and even how to roast raw coffee beans in a milk powder can in our backyard. The two of them became like old friends, despite their age difference.

  Then came the high school entrance exams—a nightmare for me.

  I don't know whether it was because of nerves or bad food, but by the second day of testing, I developed acute gastroenteritis. I could barely endure the pain in the exam hall, and naturally, my scores suffered. In the end, I had no choice but to apply to a private high school.

  But him—he was truly smart. His entrance exam score exceeded the cutoff for Changhua Senior High School by fifty points.

  I figured it was time to say goodbye.

  Honestly, I was heartbroken. At that time, I secretly wished my dad still had more coffee lessons to teach him—so that, at least once in a while, I could see him during an evening break.

  But on the first day of registration and orientation at my private high school, I was utterly stunned.

  "Long time no see. From now on, I'll be counting on the most beautiful girl in the school to take care of me."

  He stood at the school gate, smiling, dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, carrying a blue cloth backpack.

  Then, he bowed deeply.

  I was too shocked to react and could only awkwardly wave at him before walking into the cssroom.

  Looking back, I had no idea what I was feeling at the time.

  It was something called "liking."

  Back then, I naively thought we would just be best friends for life.

  Later, I noticed that every day after school, he would rush off on his bicycle. That's when I found out—he was working part-time at a café every night to pay for the expensive tuition at our private school and to cover his student loan.

  Heh, I guess you could call it applying what he had learned. My dad, upon hearing about it, was quite proud that his apprentice had surpassed the master.

  Occasionally, I would go to that café to do my homework. The owner and other part-time workers often praised his skills, saying he was the best barista in the shop and that customers were always satisfied.

  "The most beautiful girl in school, what would you like to drink today? It's on the house."

  He would always greet me with a pyful smile, wearing a white apron, bowing slightly as if he were some refined gentleman.

  "Anything," I would reply. Since he was treating it, I figured I might as well leave it up to him.

  Each time, he would bring me a different kind of coffee—tte, mocha, espresso, Colombian, Bel Donovan, Verona, or Suwesi—and he would thoughtfully add a small piece of cake on the side. In terms of skill, he was certainly no less talented than Albus.

  Although my taste buds were not particurly sensitive, I could always sense that little something special hidden within his craftsmanship after every different fvor.

  But I didn't yet realize just how precious that little something was.

  So, in my second year of high school, I got a boyfriend—a senior in his final year. Tall, handsome, riding a red FZR motorcycle, wearing custom-tailored, deliberately creased trousers to school—the dream of every girl's heart.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "You don't have to be sorry. You never promised me anything," he replied.

  "I'm sorry." Tears welled up in my eyes.

  "There's no need to apologize. Some things are decided from the very beginning—no amount of effort can change them."

  He fought to keep his tears from falling

  "I'm sorry." The girl buried her face in her hands.

  "There's no need to be sorry," he said. "But you need to understand—some things will never change, not even in ten thousand years."

  Then he said firmly, "I will always be waiting for you to be my bride."

  I think I broke his heart.

  Even though he still forced a smile when I saw him, bowing slightly, extending his hand like a gentleman, and asking, "The most beautiful girl in school, what would you like to drink today? It's on the house."

  Then he would add, "Do I still have a chance? If I do, don't forget to tap the table lightly to encourage me."

  But my hands were always too stingy to convey my feelings.

  He, on the other hand, was never stingy with his smiles—or his delicious coffee.

  So fate gave him a chance. And it gave me a revetion.

  A month before the university entrance exams, he accompanied me to the post office to send a money order for a set of music CDs. It was midday, and the post office was crowded with people handling their affairs. He leaned beside me, watching me fill out the form, grinning foolishly at something.