Childhood Friend: I Won't Lose
She was born into a blessed life. Under her wealthy parents, she enjoyed every privilege, living a world where everyone around her looked up to her with admiration. Yes, to the girl, that was simply natural. Treating others as gifts and being exalted by them was so commonplace that she assumed anyone would bow before her.
That's why, perhaps, she became obsessively fixated on the first exception she encountered.
The boy showed no interest in her presumed aura of superiority, which she thought could subjugate anyone. Instead, he dared to stand eye-to-eye with her, a chaebol heiress, despite his commoner roots. It infuriated her. The fact that this boy, whom she barely noticed, met her gaze as an equal...
So she pulled out every means at her disposal to make him submit. Ironically, the more she tried, the more she realized her common sense was shattering. She slowly learned that her absolute wealth couldn't buy everyone. That there were people superior to her in the world. That what people admired was her background and money, not her without them.
But could a girl who believed her excellence was innate easily accept such a destruction of her worldview? She ignored the creeping realization and stubbornly challenged the boy. Beating him—who exposed her shortcomings—would deny his barbs, protect her pride, and reclaim her supposed innate superiority.
Yet even the talents honed with her family's support proved useless against him. His abilities, unbelievable for a commoner, overwhelmed her every time. With each repetition, she felt her upper-class pride crumbling.
Why couldn't she beat him? Why couldn't she, with everything, defeat him from his relatively disadvantaged environment? To find out, she watched and observed him constantly, recording and analyzing his every move.
And finally, she realized it. He wasn't a genius or using tricks to deceive her. He was a diligent worker among workers, never slacking in self-improvement. He devoted most of his day to study and exercise, previewing fields she challenged him in to prepare countermeasures. And through it all, he never underestimated her. He always gave his all to their contests, won decisively, and tolerated no self-deprecation from her—not even the slightest.
She had to admit it. Stripped of background and wealth, she was nothing special, but he was extraordinary. Beating him would require matching his diligence. Even realizing this, she didn't break. Instead, she refined her methods to defeat him, preparing for the next bout. Just to win once. To beat the one who shattered her worldview and reclaim her lost pride...
No, that too was just inertia from years of challenges. Betting had become routine, his presence a constant in her life. Imagining life without him was impossible. Over time, just thinking of him, just looking at him, she vaguely sensed a change in her feelings toward him.
It started with ridicule, then rivalry and inferiority, and eventually a hint of admiration for his diligence—and a desire to be with him. But she didn't know what name to give this final emotion. For an ignorant girl in early puberty, the fluttering in her chest whenever she recalled his face or was near him was too unfamiliar.
Still, she vaguely thought she'd eventually understand it. Ironically, the boy's fear dragged it out prematurely, leaving a deep wound.
'What you're feeling is definitely love.'
Love. The hottest, most beautiful emotion humans can feel. And thus, the one that hurts most when denied.
'But I'm sorry. I don't like you, and I never will.'
His presumptuous outlining—and denial—of her feelings before she could even realize them infuriated her. It felt like all their shared time, all the memories she'd built fixated on him, were thoroughly invalidated.
So she thought forgetting him forever might ease the pain, but shaking off memories from childhood was impossible. She'd always wanted him by her side; life without him was unimaginable. She couldn't accept the tower of her feelings crumbling overnight.
Even if he pushed her away, she'd ignore it and approach. He could deny her feelings presumptuously; so could she affirm hers toward him.
"For the next three years until we graduate high school, we'll bet on which of us says 'I like you' first."
"No, I..."
"Don't even think about refusing. I've already decided, and I won't allow someone like you to rebel against it."
Declaring the bet, she felt the long-forgotten ridicule revive. She had to, to protect the seed that hadn't even sprouted. To preserve the feelings built over ten years.
"You're too arrogant from the start. Who are you to dump someone like me? Why assume a confession I never made and dump someone like me? If you're really going to dump me, shouldn't you make me confess properly first?"
"...Mary."
"No, even assuming I'd confess first pisses me off. Didn't you say it yourself? You can't like me, but you don't hate me. That means depending on what I do, you might say you like me too, right?"
Yes, he might not want to get closer, but he didn't want distance either. There was a clear weakness in his desire to maintain their childhood friend status—a chance for her to break through.
"If that's true, I'll do my best to make you say you like me."
So she bet on that. It was the way that suited them best. Whatever form her feelings took in the end, turning the process into a contest was right for them.
"It's not me saying I like you. It's making you say you like me. I won't allow you to dump me, so no matter how much distance you try to create, I'll keep closing it."
Her resolve echoed down the cherry blossom-strewn street, her outstretched finger fixing on the boy facing her steadily. He couldn't turn away, absorbing every word. Guessing her message had landed fully, the girl turned on her heel and finished.
"So get ready. For the next three years, I'll give everything to make you like me."
With her piece said, her legs fled the scene. The declaration, fruit of long deliberation, foreshadowed their longest contest yet.
'I absolutely won't lose...'
'In this bet, I absolutely won't lose. I'll make you say you like me.'
Thus steeling herself, the girl's mind painted an ideal future at the contest's end. One that would surely be more brilliant and beautiful than anything, a spring dream satisfying everyone.
My childhood friend of ten years had declared war. She'd make me say I liked her, make me regret denying her feelings...
...It felt bitterly unwelcome to me.
I was done with romantic relationships. I couldn't imagine accepting the girl's feelings.
So what I needed to do now was figure out a gentler way to refuse, patching the radical mistakes of before. Yes, that's what I thought back then. End our relationship smoothly without hurting the girl I'd watched grow up.
"What're you thinking so deeply about?"
As I reminisced, a woman approached my side. Seeing the pure white dress beneath her, I recalled our destination and drew a soft smile.
"Just thinking about the old days. When we bet on who would say 'I like you' first, you or me."
"Hehe, yeah. There was that time. I was so desperate then; now it's just a memory."
Sharing the reminiscence, the woman in white smiled. Facing her, I noticed my memory of it was hazy and tossed a light question.
"Come to think of it, I can't remember well—which of us confessed first?"
A memory surely tied closest to our current outcome. She laughed playfully and took my hand gently.
"You did, obviously. I said I'd make you say you liked me."
"Did I...?"
"What, you think I'd lie now?"
She pulled my hand, urging me to stand. Her steps held no awkwardness from her girlhood days—only calm acceptance and anticipation of the moment.
Yes, everything about her now prepared for the blessing ahead. The beautiful dress in the light, her prettily made-up face and smile facing me.
"Come on, to the chapel. We have to show everyone."
Mary Christine. My childhood friend, and the partner I'd vowed to spend my life with.