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, mango-flavored 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.”

Mango-flavored 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 tag-along, 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!”