My Childhood Crush Thought My Love Was Forever

The day I found out Quinn Prescott had pulled strings to give away my Ivy League recommendation to some transfer student, I packed up everything he'd ever given me and dumped it on his doorstep.

The next day, I found that same box in the dumpster outside my building.

Quinn's face was twisted with irritation.

"Drop it. So what if we don't go to the same college? You can get a full ride anywhere on your own, but Paula can't even afford tuition without that recommendation letter."

He let out a cold laugh. "And if this actually blows up, I promise you—it won't be me walking away with regrets."

I pressed the UCL acceptance letter tighter against my back, looking at him one last time with perfect calm.

He looked exactly like he always did when he knew he'd already won—like the outcome wasn't even a question.

But Quinn, I don't need you either.

My one-way ticket to London was already booked. We never had to see each other again.

Quinn really did have an objectively perfect face—golden hair, blue eyes, that effortless magnetism.

But for the first time in all these years, looking at that face didn't make my heart skip even once. He was just a stranger now.

Quinn didn't notice my distraction. His patience had clearly run out. He kicked the stone step beside him in frustration.

"Marlee, how long are you going to play deaf and dumb? Say something."

I snapped back to the present and shook my head calmly. "Don't worry. I have zero regrets. We're completely done."

A dull crash echoed as he kicked the nearby trash can, sending it toppling over.

The contents of the box spilled across the pavement. That infinity pendant necklace—the horizontal figure eight—glinted coldly in the sunlight.

My breath caught.

That was the necklace Quinn had personally clasped around my neck on my sixteenth birthday, after pulling me away from the noisy crowd into the garden.

In those dark days right after my brother died, Quinn had held my hand and sworn he'd protect me forever. But that night when I turned sixteen, everything changed.

He'd been drunk. As he fastened the clasp, his warm fingers had dragged heavily across the back of my neck.

Then, emboldened by alcohol, he'd leaned down and kissed me without warning.

His breath—a mix of liquor and mint—had brushed against my ear as his voice dropped low: "Marlee, hurry up and grow up already. I'm tired of just looking after you for your brother."

That boundary-crossing kiss made me follow him around like a fool, naively believing I was somehow special to him—a guy who'd never once looked twice at the same girl.

After that, whenever someone at school gave me trouble out of jealousy, he'd always pull me close with one arm and snap at everyone around us:

"Marlee's mine. Nobody touches her."

Until this semester, when Paula Foster transferred in.

Quinn, who'd always been indifferent to girls, suddenly started spending entire evenings in the library tutoring Paula.

That precious motorcycle jacket he never let anyone touch? He casually shrugged it off and wrapped it around her thin shoulders like it was nothing.

Gradually, he stopped even trying to be discreet. He started bringing her to weekend parties that only the inner circle could access, completely unapologetic.

When his friends teased him, he'd sling an arm around Paula's shoulders without hesitation. "Paula's like my little sister."

He'd even frown and warn them: "Don't be gross. Not every guy and girl hanging out has to be about that."

That single comment made it impossible for me to say anything without looking like the crazy one. I could only swallow my frustration and keep it buried.

I'd never been a docile girl.

Before this, I'd thrown plenty of tantrums. Even at parties, I'd occasionally snap and say something cutting that would embarrass Paula in front of everyone.

I'd lost count of how many fights Quinn and I had since Paula showed up. And every single time, he'd shake off my hand without hesitation and step protectively in front of her.

He probably figured I was completely under his thumb—that no matter what, I'd eventually give in if he just crooked his finger.

That's why he felt entitled to hand over the Ivy League recommendation I'd killed myself working for to Paula, like the plans we'd made together had meant absolutely nothing.

Just like that pendant now lying in the dirt at my feet.

I nudged it aside with my shoe. Funny how a symbol for forever could look so cheap lying in the dirt.

"Quinn," I met his eyes with perfect calm, "since you handed that to someone else, I'm done playing along."

Hitting a nerve, Quinn looked at me like I'd told the funniest joke.

He pressed down his anger, voice tight with warning. "Marlee, think carefully. When you get hurt out there and come crying back with regrets, don't expect me to ever—"

"Perfect."

Before he could finish that condescending speech, I cut him off eagerly.

I'd always hated bending myself for other people. And yet somewhere along the way, with Quinn, that's exactly what I'd become—someone I didn't even recognize.

I'd worn myself down trying to play into his savior complex and deal with all those manipulative girls orbiting him.

At least now, this one-sided performance called "unrequited love" was over.

His face darkened. He turned and swung his leg over that black motorcycle, kicking the stand up roughly.

With a deafening roar of the engine, he twisted the throttle and tore off down the street.

News of my breakup with Quinn spread through the entire school in under an hour.

Thanks to Paula.

She'd posted an intimate photo with Quinn on her Instagram Close Friends story.

In the picture, Quinn sat on his bike looking stormy while Paula pressed against his back from the rear seat, arms wrapped tight around his waist, her cheek against his leather jacket. The caption read:

[Even if the whole world doesn't understand you, at least you have me. 🖤]

Several mutual friends screenshot the story and sent it to me, fishing for confirmation that Quinn and I were really over.

In the past, seeing Paula's boundary-stomping "claiming her territory" photos would've made me lose my mind. I would've immediately called Quinn and demanded answers.

Then I'd spiral into self-doubt after his irritated "Can you stop being psychotic for one day?"

But now, sitting in my messy bedroom, I just replied to every single message with the same line, over and over:

[Yeah, we're done.]

Within two minutes, someone who loved stirring up drama screenshot both Paula's story and my replies and dropped them into our iMessage group chat of dozens of people, even tagging both me and Quinn like this was a spectator sport.

I'd barely started typing when Quinn's message popped up in the group.

[@Marlee, quit putting on these cheap attention-seeking performances. I'm giving you the weekend to clear your head. If you're ready to come apologize Monday morning, we can let this slide.]

The group chat exploded instantly.

Everyone started spamming popcorn emojis and placing bets on how long I'd last before crying and calling him to beg for forgiveness. Most were betting I wouldn't make it through the night.

Watching the messages scroll past, I didn't feel angry. I almost wanted to laugh.

It was just so pointless.

I didn't bother responding. I just left the group.