When I got into an argument with my rival, Celia Tinsley, my boyfriend, Jaime Lyndon, didn't just stay silent. In front of everyone, he flung his coffee right at me.

I froze for a second, then turned around and walked away.

That night, I handed in my resignation.

Everyone was shocked. After all, Jaime and I had grown up together, and I'd been in love with him for twelve whole years.

On the day I left, he looked at me, confused. "Seriously? Just because I threw a cup of coffee at you?"

I didn't even glance back. "Yeah. Just because you threw a cup of coffee at me."

***

When Jaime splashed coffee in my face, I didn't move.

The icy liquid dripped down my clothes.

He'd thrown it hard, and the coffee hit my face with a dull thud.

My skin instantly turned red, a burning pain shooting across my nerves.

I stared up at him, stunned.

My boyfriend, Jaime—right when I was standing up for myself in front of my coworkers—told me to shut up in front of the entire conference room.

Just because I wouldn't back down, he didn't hesitate to hurl his coffee at me.

He watched as I stood there, drenched and humiliated.

His fingers hovered in the air for a moment, as if even he was surprised, but then his expression hardened with irritation.

"Gracie Rowden, do you have to make a scene right now?"

The blue light from the projector cast a cold shadow along his tense jawline, making him look even more distant.

People started whispering. Some ducked their heads, pretending to shuffle through their papers.

Celia closed her laptop slowly and let out a soft laugh. "Mr. Lyndon, don't be so harsh on the poor girl. Look, she's so scared she can't even speak."

Her words poured gasoline on the fire.

Jaime suddenly slammed a folder down on the table.

The loud bang made everyone jump.

He glared at me, his expressionless face. "This is a workplace, not your home. If you can't keep your personal feelings out of the project, you don't belong here. Consider this your warning. Next time, you're out."

The conference room fell silent.

I touched my soaked face, and suddenly, it all seemed absurd.

Twelve years.

Jaime and I had grown up together. I'd loved him for 12 years.

He always said I was childish and too emotional.

But this was the first time he'd ever humiliated me in front of everyone.

My eyes burned.

Laughter and whispers swelled around the room, my coworkers leaning in to gossip.

Celia leaned against Jaime, her red lips curling in a victorious smile.

I couldn't take it anymore. I turned and walked out of the conference room.

I didn't know where I was going—I just knew I couldn't stay at work, and I couldn't face either of them.

Outside the office building, the sunlight was so bright it hurt my eyes.

In the glass doors, I saw my own reflection—disheveled, makeup ruined by coffee stains.

I stopped at a convenience store and bought a pack of wipes and a face mask.

The young cashier glanced at me, then quietly slipped two extra strawberry candies into my bag.

"Here, have something sweet," she whispered. "There's nothing in this world you can't get through."

I stood by the trash can, clutching the candy wrappers, and suddenly remembered my first day of school when I was six.

Jaime had done the same thing—pressed a strawberry candy into my hand and promised he'd walk in with me.

Jaime and I grew up together—literally, wearing matching diapers as toddlers.

Our families lived right across the hall from each other. When my mom and his were both pregnant, they used to joke about arranging our marriage before we were even born.

Ever since I could walk, I was always trailing after him.

When we started middle school, a few girls in my class constantly picked on me.

They'd hide my homework, splash ink on my skirt, and purposely hit me with balls during gym.

The worst of them all was the class president, Bethany Lenner.

She once tossed my carefully crafted art project into the trash and laughed, "It's so ugly anyway, the teacher wouldn't even bother looking at it."

With tears in my eyes, I went to the homeroom teacher.

She just patted my head and said, "Bethany's the class president. She's only trying to motivate you to do better."

That night at dinner, I tried to hold back my tears as I ate.

My dad noticed something was wrong. He slammed his fork down, ready to march to school and set things straight.

Just then, Jaime's father came by to invite my dad out fishing. When he heard what happened, he turned and yelled into the living room, "Jaime! Starting tomorrow, you're walking Gracie to school!"

The next afternoon after class, Jaime kicked open the back door of our classroom.

He grabbed Bethany by the collar with one hand, dragged her up to the front, and in front of the whole class, demanded coldly, "You're the one bullying Gracie?"

At 14, he was already a head taller than most teachers, and his glare could make even the toughest kids from the vocational school next door cry.

Bethany shook like a leaf, and her little gang of friends fell completely silent.

Before he left, Jaime tapped the chalkboard with an eraser, sending a cloud of chalk dust into the morning sunlight.

"Listen up—Gracie's under my protection."

After that, no one dared mess with me again. And I stuck to Jaime like glue.

When he played basketball, I'd sit on the sidelines hugging his jacket. When he went to the internet café with his buddies, I'd perch on a little stool nearby, doing my homework.

Jaime was always frowning and trying to shoo me away. "Gracie, can you please stop following me everywhere? My friends keep making fun of me because of you."

But I never cared.

I'd swing my ponytail and press an ice-cold Coke to the back of his sunburned neck. "Jaime, drinks are on me today!"

Day after day, year after year, his gruff scolding slowly turned into helpless sighs.

At our college orientation party, I danced in a white dress.

When I came offstage, I saw him clutching my jacket, eyes darting everywhere, a suspicious blush coloring his cheeks.

"Have you stared long enough?" I teased, poking his chest.

He panicked and dropped his phone, fumbling three times before he finally picked it up. "W-Who was looking at you? I was watching the emcee..."

Later, at New Year's dinner, our families started teasing, "Why not just make the engagement official for these two?"

Jaime didn't say a word—he just dropped some food on my plate.

I ducked my head, stifling a laugh.

That idiot—his ears were so red, they looked like they might bleed.

"I'm in!" I announced, raising my sauce-covered hand. "Jaime doesn't mind, right?"

Jaime just smiled, took my hand, and carefully wiped it clean.

But fate had other plans for us the year we graduated.

Just as life was settling into its usual rhythm, Celia appeared.

She was the new intern at our company. On her very first day, she walked around the office handing out Starbucks to everyone at their desks.

"Hope you'll all look out for me."

When she reached my desk, she leaned over, and her chestnut curls swept across my keyboard. The strong scent of her perfume was so overpowering that I sneezed.

She paused when she saw me and let out a dramatic "Oh?"

Her fingers, polished with deep burgundy nail polish, pointed at my pink laptop, pink thermos, and pink keyboard.

"Oh my god..." She took two steps back, covering her mouth, and suddenly burst out in a peal of laughter. "It's the 21st century—do women still like pink?"

Every head in the office snapped up to look.

My ears burned so hot I thought they might catch fire.

I could feel my coworkers' stares like needles pricking my back.

Celia wasn't finished. "Gracie, even your mouse is pink! And you actually wear Lolita dresses?"

My ears rang.

I'd always loved all things pink and cute, ever since I was little.

And the Lolita dresses—almost my entire wardrobe was made up of pink, frilly Lolita dresses.

People always had something to say about it.

Back in elementary school, some boys accused me of trying too hard to be cute, and some girls thought I was being fake.

But most people were kind, telling me I looked adorable in those dresses.

Yet this was the first time I'd ever been openly mocked in front of everyone, and the shame was unbearable.

I felt as if I'd been stripped bare in public.

I stood there, frozen, my cheeks burning, my fingers twisting the hem of my skirt, wishing I could disappear on the spot.

"Oh, Gracie, I was just joking, you're not mad, right?" Celia suddenly leaned in, her voice syrupy sweet. "Actually, pink Lolita suits you. Makes you look younger than you are."

"That's enough." Jaime's cold voice cut through the tension.

I turned to see him standing there, brow furrowed, his gaze sharp as a blade aimed at Celia. "You're new here, and this is how you act on your first day? This isn't a comedy club. If you do this again, you're out."

But her eyes lit up. She tilted her head, sizing him up, and bit her lip with a coy smile. "Sorry, I just wanted to get closer to Gracie. I promise it won't happen again."

In the end, a female colleague from HR stepped in to smooth things over, assigning Celia to the desk diagonally across from Jaime.

From then on, she showed up every day with flawless "no-makeup" makeup, strutting around in 8 cm high heels.

Sometimes, she'd "accidentally" spill coffee on Jaime's reports, then pout and apologize.

Other times, she'd lean over just enough to show off her lacy bra, her voice syrupy sweet. "Jaime, can you check these numbers for me?"

And as for my pink Lolita dresses—I never dared wear them to work again.

Two months later, I suddenly realized Jaime and Celia had gotten awfully close.

That morning, he brought me breakfast as usual.

But instead of my favorite strawberry yogurt drink, he handed me a cold carton of plain milk.

"I break out if I drink milk, remember?" I asked, holding up the box.

Jaime was busy adjusting Celia's monitor and didn't even look back. "Stop being picky. You're 25. You shouldn't be drinking those sugary kids' drinks anymore."

Celia spun around, straw between her lips, twirling the milk carton in her fingers. "Sorry, Gracie, I wanted milk today. But honestly, who drinks those sweet kiddie drinks as an adult?"

She suddenly leaned close to my ear, "You're not trying to act younger than you are, are you?"

Smack!

I slammed the milk down on her keyboard, splattering white droplets all over her brand-new Gucci blouse. "Do you always have to comment on other people's preferences?"

The office fell into instant, stunned silence.

Celia's eyes welled up with tears. "I—I just thought milk was healthier, Gracie, don't be mad. It's my fault."

"Gracie!" Jaime grabbed my wrist. "It's not like you're lactose intolerant. Was that really necessary? And Celia's not wrong—you're an adult; can't you act a little more mature?"

Looking at the impatience in his eyes, I suddenly didn't feel like arguing anymore.