她是我从地狱中挣扎出来时，唯一握住的那只手

21岁那年，我遇到了她——一个让我一生都又爱又恨的女孩。

她不是我真正的亲人，却成了我心中最亲近的“姐姐”。那时候的我，刚从温哥华的一连串打击中挣扎出来，像一个从地狱里爬回人间的人，浑身是伤，满目苍凉。

我用了整整四年，在高中里头悬梁、锥刺股，记笔记、学会计，认真数着学校店面每一笔进出货，只为了月底能递交一份像样的会计报告。我知道自己比别人慢一步、差一点，只能靠努力追上。可是，当我终于毕业，拿到那张成绩单，目光落在“英文成绩”那一栏，我的世界彻底崩塌了。

那一行冷冰冰的分数，不只是对我四年努力的否认，更像是一张盖章的“失败证明”，将我推回那个最初的绝望深渊。

我与她初识时，并不知道她是在金融公司实习做销售。我只是追随着一种心底的熟悉感——像是腥咸的海风，像是冬日巷尾的饭香。她说话的口音、眉眼的神态，都让我想起我走失的过去。

在我二十出头的年纪，她走进了我的人生，成为我在异国他乡最重要的人。那时候的我还只是一个靠教育基金读书的学生，并不需要那份保险。我只是想靠近她，想和她成为最好的朋友，仅此而已。

她是我心里最温暖的记忆。无论我经历了多少痛苦与悲伤，脑海中首先浮现的，永远是她。

我十多岁来到温哥华，这段人生经历，至今仍是我最痛苦的噩梦。教室里，无论我坐在哪个角落，我都像一个失了魂的人。那些同学不是我熟悉的中国课堂里的孩子，她们谈论酒吧、男朋友、甚至开房，而我，还在谈论梦想、谈考试、谈怎么能快点养活自己。

我落单在那个教室的角落，望着四周的人群，像是身处一个空落落的空间。我明明坐在那里，却仿佛根本不存在。

语言，成了剥夺我世界的屏障。它不是桥梁，而是深渊。

我不知道我们的感情究竟是从哪一刻开始疏远的。也许是那个在温哥华也学会计、做CGA、组织工会、当地产经纪的男生，第一次通过她来了解我时。她那句酸溜溜的评价、那一脸不屑的表情，还有轻轻一甩的脸——就是在那一刻，我隐约察觉，我们之间似乎裂开了一道缝。

但即便如此，我还是选择站在她那一边。

她是我在温哥华，除了父母与兄弟之外，最重要的人。为了守护这份关系，我毫不犹豫地屏蔽了那个男生，删除、拉黑，哪怕他其实并没有真正伤害过我。我只是想让她高兴，不想我们之间多出任何误会或裂痕。

每次去她所在的金融公司，我都做一个安静的小姑娘，规规矩矩地听讲，从不越界、不多言。我甚至小心翼翼地帮她介绍朋友和客户——那些人，是我在这座城市里，除了她之外最用心维护的关系。

可她从未觉得这有什么难得，她早已习惯了我的好，把我的努力当成了理所当然。

真正让我心碎的，并不是她渐渐远离，而是她选择在我最痛苦、最需要温柔的时候，狠狠地伤我。

那时，我正在学习人工智能，精神几近崩溃。为了维持情绪和记忆，我靠药物支撑着自己每天运转。生活已经压抑得几乎令人窒息，而她却在那个时候对我说出了那句话：“你该用狗链子栓”，她甚至把我曾经的同学，说成是另一个更“富裕”的人身边的朋友。

那一刻，我终于看清了所谓的“差距”——不是地位，不是学历，不是财富，而是人心。

那天，我终于明白了什么叫被看不起，不是因为你做错了什么，而只是因为你是谁。明白了什么叫被轻视、被剥夺、被当作别人往上爬的垫脚石。你掏心掏肺去守护的一段关系，最后却在一句最冷酷的话中彻底崩塌，直刺内心最柔软的部分。

I was 21 when I met her—a girl I would both love and resent for the rest of my life.

She wasn’t my family, but she became the closest thing I had to an older sister. At the time, I had just crawled out of a long string of defeats in Vancouver, like someone returning from hell—wounded, exhausted, and stripped of all hope.

For four years in high school, I pushed myself relentlessly. I studied accounting, took notes like my life depended on it, and carefully recorded every transaction in the school store, just so I could submit a proper financial report at the end of each month. I knew I was slower than others, always one step behind. The only way to catch up was to work harder than everyone else.

But when I finally graduated and opened my transcript, my eyes landed on the line that said “English”—and my entire world collapsed.

That cold, indifferent grade didn’t just deny four years of effort; it felt like a certified stamp of failure. It dragged me back into that same hopeless pit I had spent years trying to climb out of.

When I first met her, I didn’t know she was a sales intern at a financial company. I was simply drawn to a familiar feeling—like the salty sea breeze of home, or the scent of a winter meal down an old alleyway. Her accent, her mannerisms, the way she looked at the world—they reminded me of the life I had lost.

In my early twenties, she entered my life and quickly became the most important person to me in this foreign land. At the time, I was still living on education grants and had no need for insurance. I just wanted to be close to her. I just wanted us to become best friends.

She was my warmest memory. No matter how much pain or sadness I experienced, her image was always the first to appear in my mind.

I had come to Vancouver in my early teens. That chapter of my life still haunts me like a nightmare. In class, no matter where I sat, I felt like a ghost. My classmates weren’t like the ones I used to know in China. They talked about boyfriends, bars, even booking hotel rooms. I talked about dreams, exams, and how to survive.

I sat alone in the corners of those classrooms, surrounded by people, yet completely isolated—like I was there, but not really.

Language didn’t build a bridge for me. It dug a trench.

I don’t know exactly when the distance between us began. Maybe it was when that guy—also studying accounting in Vancouver, on his way to becoming a CGA, active in Chinese culture association and real estate—first asked her about me. Her sarcastic tone, the dismissive flick of her face... That moment left a crack in what I thought was unbreakable.

But I still chose to stand by her.

She was the most important person to me in Vancouver, aside from my family. To protect what we had, I blocked that guy, deleted his contact—even though he had done nothing wrong. I just didn’t want her to be upset. I didn’t want any friction between us.

Whenever I went to her financial office, I acted like a quiet, well-mannered girl—listening attentively, never speaking out of turn. I even introduced her to new friends and clients—people I had carefully built relationships with, second only to her. But she never once saw it as something special. She accepted my effort as something she naturally deserved.

What broke me wasn’t her growing coldness. It was the fact that when I needed her most—when I was at my most fragile—she chose to strike where it hurt the most.

At that time, I was studying artificial intelligence while teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown. I was on medication just to stabilize my mood and retain my memory. Life was already unbearable. And then she said it—that awful, dehumanizing line:

“You should be kept on a dog leash.”

She said it like a joke. As if the pain I had buried deep inside deserved to be mocked. Then she went further. She claimed that my old classmates—the people who once cared about me—now belonged to someone else, someone richer, someone more “successful.”

In that moment, I understood what the real difference between us was. It wasn’t status. It wasn’t GPA. It wasn’t income. It was the heart.

That was the day I learned what it means to be looked down on—not for what you did wrong, but for who you are. To be dismissed, reduced, and treated like someone’s stepping stone. To give everything you have to protect a relationship, only for it to collapse in a single, sharp-edged sentence that cuts straight through you.

It wasn’t just a misunderstanding. It wasn’t my imagination.

She was once the gentlest presence in my life. And she did abandon me at my weakest. She pushed me—along with all my trust and dignity—into an even deeper sea.

But I didn’t drown there.

I learned how to heal quietly. I stopped chasing after her. I stopped trying to prove my worth. I stopped begging for kindness from someone who no longer had it to give. I took all the unspoken words, all the sleepless questions, and turned them into nails—nails that now hold together the spine I rebuilt myself.

That leash was never meant for me.

What I deserve is the strength to walk freely, the courage to say “no,” and the peace to love again—without losing myself.

She was the only hand I held while crawling out of hell.

But now, at last, I’ve learned how to hold my own.