Part 2Fleeting Blossoms, Bittersweet Endings

Willow Reed was right; Owen Bridgerton and I were indeed childhood sweethearts.

I first met Owen when I was four. A new neighbor had moved in next door, but I never saw anyone. Only occasionally, late at night, would I hear faint sobs coming from the small balcony opposite.

Not long after, while playing in our yard, I overheard passersby talking about the new neighbors. “They own a company; both parents are constantly traveling abroad for business. They didn’t even come back for the move.”

“It’s just a nanny watching the child, supposedly since he was little.”

“That nanny isn’t any good. I’ve seen her hit the child several times.”

Hearing that, I waited outside their gate that very evening. When the nanny went out to throw trash, I, being small, squeezed through the gap in the door. My little legs pattered up to the second floor, where I found Owen sitting on the stairs, lost in thought. He was curled up, small and thin, hiding in a patch of shadow. A faint blue bruise marked his pale face.

Hearing footsteps, his slender shoulders flinched. He buried his head even deeper.

I walked over and gently patted his shoulder. My childish voice said, “Don’t be scared, I’m here to protect you.”

That night, I secretly brought four-year-old Owen home. I hid him in my bed, snugly wrapped in a small blanket. We slept together at night, and during the day, I secretly brought him food.

It went on like this for a week until Owen’s parents finally learned he was missing. The couple booked the next available flight and rushed back. The nanny’s years of misconduct were exposed.

It’s hard to say what my small self was thinking back then. Perhaps those nights of crying sounded too pitiful. A strong sense of responsibility welled up inside me. For a long time afterward, I considered caring for Owen my personal mission.

I took him up the mountain to catch butterflies, down to the water to catch loaches. In spring, we flew kites; in winter, we built snowmen in the yard. Little by little, I drew that somewhat gloomy, introverted boy out of the shadows.

Our relationship grew closer. Our feelings deepened.

In the height of summer during our junior year, Owen confessed his feelings to me. The young man was still wearing his school-issued short-sleeved uniform, his pant legs rolled up above his knees. In his hands, he held a few lotus flowers freshly picked from the pond.

“Summer Blossom, I like you.”

“Be my girlfriend.”

Dappled light fell on him. My heart fluttered in an instant.

Seeing me nod, Owen grinned. Even under the sun, his smile was brighter than the sunshine itself. He pulled me into a hug, repeating softly, “Summer Blossom, I like you!”

“I’ll always, always like you!”

After we started dating, not much actually changed. We went to school and came home together. On weekends, we’d bury ourselves in the library or attend tutoring sessions together. The difference was, we held hands and kissed. Owen seemed to have a constant need for physical contact, wanting to be glued to me every day.

I thought we’d go on like this forever.

Until Willow Reed appeared.