All eyes were on me, but none of them was kind enough to lend me a helping hand. My knee was seriously injured after the fall, and part of my jeans was worn out. Blood was oozing out profusely from the wound, and the burning sensation was almost unbearable that I thought I was going to cry. Abruptly, a young man came forward and kneed beside of me. He was rather tall, and was in his orange collared T-shirt, matching his jeans pants. Instinctively, he slipped his hand into his pocket, drew out a clean handkerchief and compressed it on the wound to control the bleeding. Then, he did something out of expectation. He stripped off his clothes as if showing off his muscular body and used it to bandage my wound. I had to admit that he was excelled in it.1

"There you go," he said, tying the last knot, smiling. Our eyes met, and that was when our relationship started.


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