The Sponsored Student

When the last video call ended, the clock in the lower right corner of the computer had just turned 11:47. I took off the noise-cancelling bluetooth earphones. The area around my ear was numb from the pressure of the earphones; a dull, stifling ache against my skin spread from the rim of my ear to my temples. I raised my hand and gently massaged the soreness with my fingertips, trying to ease the ache. The Americano on the table had long since lost its warmth. The dark brown liquid lay settled at the bottom of the cup. The condensation droplets on the cup's surface slid down the glass, leaving irregular dark stains on the smooth tabletop—like faint marks that couldn't be washed away. At last, I can catch my breath. I habitually opened social media, hoping to scroll through a few lighthearted posts to relax my nerves. A post with a glaring headline suddenly popped up in my feed, stabbing at my eyes—"How does a poor student pursue his sponsor to become her boyfriend?" Following the headline was a cluster of pink, flirtatious heart emojis, exuding an indescribably sleazy vibe. I clicked in; the comment section's "tips" were crammed onto the screen like a dense swarm of ants crawling from my fingertips to my chest—both itchy and disgusting. [Send good morning and good night messages every day without fail, remember her menstrual cycle, remind her to dress warmly when it's cold, tell her to drink more water when it's hot; slowly make her get used to your presence—women all fall for this. Over time, she won't be able to live without you.] [If you're good-looking, take more gym photos, preferably showing your abs; captions should lean towards "working hard for the future her" or "wanting to give her my arms" Older women fall for this deeply devoted act—every time.] [Don't ask for money outright; that's too blunt. Start by pretending to care—ask if she's eaten, if work's tiring, whether she wants you to order takeout or buy her bubble tea. Gradually build closeness, and once she's fond of you, find an excuse to borrow money—you never have to pay it back.] My fingertips went ice cold in an instant. After struggling through the business world for ten years, I've seen power struggles and people rising through schemes, but never anyone who wears their "calculations" so plainly on their face. This isn't love; it's using "love" as a fig leaf to hide greed, all while fooling oneself into thinking it's clever. The phone vibrated three times, the screen flashing the name "Felix Carter." He was the student I had sponsored from sophomore year in high school through his sophomore year in college—a full six years. [Yolanda, thirteen minutes left until midnight. Are you still busy? No matter how busy you are, remember to eat lunch. You mentioned before your stomach isn't well, and hunger makes it hurt.] At the end of the message was a sticker: round eyes, tongue sticking out, and sparkling stars. The tone was sickeningly sweet—cloying, like cheap candy from a supermarket—deliberately ingratiating. I opened his Moments; his latest updates were posted almost on cue—three photos uploaded within three minutes, each meticulously staged. The first was a bare-chested selfie taken in the bathroom mirror. He likely sucked in his stomach intentionally; his abs were deliberately flexed, the lines lacking natural flow, with faint pockets of fat at his waist, resembling a loose lump of flesh. The caption read with deep sentiment: "Working a little harder for the future her, giving her the very best." I stared at the screen, feeling nothing but irony—his so-called "effort" was just striking poses in front of a mirror? The second photo is a side profile with such excessive skin smoothing that it becomes distorted. The angle is awkward, just enough to conceal the flat nose flaw, exposing only a relatively smooth jawline. The caption is so pretentious it gives you goosebumps: "Last night I dreamed she called my name; I couldn't recover for a long time after waking, my mind full of her image." I don't know who this "she" is that he's talking about; this clumsy sentiment is worse than a middle school love letter.