From the day she got the notebook, she began writing a diary. In the blink of an eye, more than ten years had passed, and three-quarters of the notebook was filled, writing had become a habit for her.
She penned hurriedly, with few words, maintaining the usual simplicity and lightness, as if the world's glitz and chaos were not worth much ink from her pen.
After some time, Qiao Mo received two text messages on her phone, one was a transfer notification, the other from Xie Qinghuan.
'Xiao Mo, this is 300,000 yuan from Chuchu and me. I know if Qin Zhaoran has to operate, this money might not be enough, but at least the medical expenses can last a while.'
Qiao Mo's eyes felt a little moist, she held onto her phone without making a sound or replying.
She knew Qinghuan did not call because she feared embarrassing her, after all these years she had never asked anyone for help.
But now, she had begged that man several times, lowering herself to let him trample on her.
