Wicked Consort, Spare My Bird

“Mom, are you really sure I didn't have a handsome childhood sweetheart? What about someone I was engaged to? Was there anyone I was engaged to?” As expected, Mom just kept shaking her head. Unexpectedly, she walked away and left me there. I wasn't giving up. I couldn't accept it. In those romance novels, every heroine has a handsome childhood sweetheart with such style. It's not fair! Why didn't I have one? When I get worked up, I tend to babble and mutter to myself. Mom came back, apparently carrying something: an old photo album. She pointed at one of the pictures and said, “Everyone who grew up with you is in here. You should remember some of them.” Sure, I remembered them. Of those thirteen boys, ten were still in my class, and they all looked pretty weird. As for the other three, I scanned the photo. The chubby one in the lower left corner: people say fat people are usually fair-skinned, so how was he such an exception?! A little farther along, oh my god! That jerk who stabbed me with a compass in third grade! He could die a hundred million times and it still wouldn't be enough! Oh, this one looks pretty good. Nice features, and such fair skin! “Mom, Mom, this one! Where is he? I'll go find him.” Mom leaned over for a look. “Good grief, where would you find him? He died of leukemia in second grade.” I was fourteen that year, and my young heart was battered by every storm. It was devastating.