Losing My Childhood Crush's Love

My childhood friend sent the love letter I wrote to his crush.

He even added this comment: [Childhood friends are disgusting. I only played with her because I pitied her for being from a singleparent family. I never thought she’d develop feelings for me.]

His crush then posted screenshots of their conversation on the campus forum, turning me into a laughingstock for everyone.

I finally let go of my naive fantasies and distanced myself from his life.

Years later, when we met again, I had someone new, someone far more worthy by my side.

But he couldn’t seem to leave me alone.

“Why don’t you like me anymore?”

——

While scrolling through the campus forum today, I accidentally came across a post.

[#Shocking! Look at this simp!]

There were two screenshots below. The text was all too familiar – it was a love letter signed by Daisy Wilson.

The other screenshot was a conversation.

My heart skipped a beat as I clicked on it.

[Childhood friends are disgusting. I only played with her because I pitied her for being from a singleparent family. I never thought she’d develop feelings for me.]

I looked up, my gaze falling on the young man still in the art studio. My heart sank.

That love letter was mine.

I had written it to Francis Brown.

And the person who called childhood friends disgusting was none other than Francis himself.

I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen it, but as soon as I left the studio, my classmates stared and pointed, and I could hear occasional snickers.

“Look, she’s the simp.”

“Wow, it’s hilarious. I can’t believe in this day and age, there’s still a girl who simps that hard.”

I lowered my head, trying to walk past them as quickly as I could. But someone grabbed my drawing board, stopping me.

A familiar voice sounded above my head, “Emily’s not feeling well today. The soup you made for her was fine, so make a bit more today, and I’ll take it to her.”

I thought I’d misheard.

I looked up abruptly and met Francis’s eyes. They were as cold and distant as always.

He was looking at me, but it didn’t feel like he was really seeing me.

I gave a bitter laugh. “Okay.”

I quickly pulled the drawing board from his hand and walked away.

Knowing that Francis had serious stomach issues, I had specifically learned how to make stomachfriendly soup, hoping to help him recover.

But it turned out that he never really cared.

To him, I was just a free cook, summoned when needed and discarded just as easily.

I left the soup downstairs, sent him a message, and walked away.

University courses were busy and overwhelming, and because I had spent time making the soup, I hadn’t eaten lunch myself. Now I was feeling lightheaded, planning to grab a quick bite from the cafeteria later.

I barely made it through class, and just as I was about to leave, someone slammed me against the wall.

“Daisy, what did you put in that soup? Why did Emily end up in the hospital after eating it?”

Dizzy from low blood sugar, I was slow to process his words. Before I could understand, he was already dragging me forward.

“You’re coming with me to explain this to the counselor. You have to clarify everything.”

Clarify?

His grip was too strong, making it hard for me to breathe. My vision blurred, but I knew I couldn’t pass out now. If I did, there would be no way to clear things up.

The school counselor had obviously heard about what happened.

She looked at me with a mix of scrutiny and disappointment.

“You’re all classmates. There’s no need to do something like this. If you admit to it and apologize to Emily, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t do anything.”

Francis’s expression grew colder. “What do you mean you didn’t? You made that soup, didn’t you? What are you trying to deny? How come the soup was fine before, but today Emily ends up in the hospital after eating it?”

I didn’t want to argue with someone so blinded by anger. I pointed to the thermos on the teacher’s desk.

“I believe the school has a lab for testing substances. The results should come out quickly. If it’s proven that I’m at fault, I’ll accept any punishment.”

Both Francis and the teacher were taken aback by my suggestion, but neither rejected it.

A crowd had gathered, all eager to watch the drama unfold. Their whispers and judgmental stares weighed heavily on me.

“Isn’t that Daisy Wilson? The one who got her confession exposed on the forum?”

“You think she poisoned the soup out of jealousy because Francis likes Emily Young?”

I listened to the gossip swirling around me, but I had no words left to defend myself.

The waiting felt endless. My stomach churned, and darkness clouded my vision, but I held on. The school’s lab was trustworthy.

When the teacher finally returned with the results, her expression was complicated.

Francis snatched the report from her hands, his face flashing with disbelief. “The soup wasn’t tainted? How is that possible?”

Right then, his phone rang. It was one of Emily’s friends.

“Francis, Emily has acute gastroenteritis. It had nothing to do with the soup. You don’t need to bother Daisy anymore. She’s feeling better now. Come to the hospital and be with her!”

And just like that, the truth came out.

Francis held the report in his hands, opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Apologize!”

I wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily.

I was not a saint, and I would not tolerate being wronged without speaking up.

Francis hesitated, his expression shifting before returning to calm.

“I’m sorry. This time, I was indeed too impulsive. I was just worried that you might do something reckless.”

It was the first time I had ever heard Francis apologize, and it stirred some mixed feelings within me.

In the past, I was always the one who backed down during conflicts.

Now, he was apologizing because of someone else’s prompting, which really highlighted the difference between us.

I got what I wanted, so I didn’t feel the need to drag this out.

As the crowd that had gathered for the drama began to disperse, I prepared to leave, but Francis spoke up again.

“You should still come with me to the hospital. Even if the soup wasn’t the issue, Emily did get sick after drinking it, and you should apologize to her.”

I almost laughed out loud. Here I was, putting in effort and getting nothing in return, and yet I was expected to apologize for something that wasn’t even my fault.

“No, you’re the one who should apologize.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

I stepped around him, unwilling to engage further.

After that incident, I stopped making soup for him and focused more on my painting and studies, distancing myself from his life completely.

But unexpectedly, Francis, who used to be hard to find, now seemed to be around me constantly.

Even though I ignored him, mangoflavored milk – my favorite – would frequently show up on my desk.

I gave it to my classmates without a second thought, but after a few times, Francis caught on.

He cornered me, pushing the milk into my hands. “I bought these for you. Don’t let anyone else take them this time. What’s with you? It’s just like when we were kids, you always let people take your things.”

Did he think someone had intentionally taken the mango milk?

I paused for a moment before pushing the milk back into his hands.

“Thanks, Francis, but I don’t like it anymore.”

Mangoflavored milk used to be the thing that comforted me the most.

Whenever my mom bought it for me, I’d find a quiet corner to drink it alone.

But there was always some brat who would find me and snatch it away.

I cried every time.

And that’s when Francis would swoop in like a prince, find those kids, and get my milk back.

It wasn’t the milk that stopped my tears – it was him.

Back then, he was like a guardian angel to me.

But time stole that angel away.

Now, he had someone new to protect, and to him, I was just an annoying tagalong, someone to be tolerated.

If he no longer belonged to me, I didn’t want him anymore.

I walked swiftly back to the art studio, his voice following me.

“Those screenshots weren’t posted by me. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they get taken down.”

I didn’t look back. It didn’t matter anymore.

I requested a change in my art studio and, to my dismay, ended up sharing it with Emily Young.

She smiled at me, polite and friendly, but there was a glint in her eyes that I didn’t like – one I recognized all too well.

It was the same look those who used to bully me had in their eyes.

I kept my distance.

Recently, the school announced an international painting competition with a hefty cash prize for the winners, something I was very interested in.

I had a piece ready.

Emily was asked by the teacher to collect the entries, so I handed mine over without a second thought.

That afternoon, the submissions were posted on the school’s website.

To my shock, my painting was listed, but under Emily’s name.

My head spun, and I immediately sought out the teacher in charge, only to find several teachers gathered around my painting, singing its praises.

And there, sitting before my work, was Emily.

“This is exceptional. The level of detail rivals that of some masters. How did you come up with the idea to paint a child like this?”

Emily smiled.

“My mother once told me I had an older brother, but he didn’t survive. I’ve always wondered what it would’ve been like to have him around. Would he have been the kind of brother who’d always protect me?

“I’ve never seen him, but I imagine he’d look like this, so I painted him.”

“That’s not your brother in the painting! It’s a little girl!” I shouted, furious.

All the teachers turned to me, disapproving looks on their faces.

“Which class are you in? How rude!”

I knew I was acting impulsively, but I just couldn’t hold it in.

The child in the painting was a close friend I made while I was ill.

She had leukemia, and the treatment made her lose all her hair. Her body was even frailer than most children her age.

She never cried or complained during her treatment; every day, she fought so hard to live. But because of too many disruptions from her family, her treatment failed.

She was lost forever that summer.

I had promised her I would paint an oil portrait of her. When I finally finished it and came back to show her, she had already passed away.

Emily scoffed, looking at me with contempt.

“Miss Wilson, you can’t just say whatever you want without proof. Who’s going to believe this painting is yours? I know you and Francis don’t get along, but don’t drag me into it.”

The teachers clearly believed Emily, thinking I was causing trouble for no reason. Their looks toward me grew more disapproving.

At that moment, Francis walked into the office.

Seeing the scene, he raised an eyebrow and asked what was going on.

“Your dear friend here seems to have a problem with me, Francis. If you like me, maybe sort out your female entourage before trying to pursue me!”

Francis glanced at the painting, then at me, clearly imagining something in his mind. He grabbed my wrist and spoke with a hint of apology in his voice.

“Emily, keep talking to the teachers. I’ll take care of this.”

Without another word, he dragged me outside.

His grip was so tight that it hurt, and I tried to break free but couldn’t.

I clenched my teeth, forcing back tears.

Quickly, I dialed my phone, and before he could start yelling, I shouted into the receiver, “Kaden, get to campus right now and find me in the office. If you don’t, the painting of your sister will be stolen by the time you get here.”