Chapter 5: The Cost of Saying I Love You

I’ll never forget that day.

The day after the track meet, the class fund went missing. Some classmates immediately accused me of stealing it.

"Who else could it be? She’s the poorest, works at the coffee shop. No parents—does she even know right from wrong?"

"Still wearing patched jeans senior year—gross. She reeks of poverty. Anyone near her will get poor too."

"Yeah! Someone should search her. Bet she’s got pockets sewn everywhere—maybe even in her underwear."

"Gross! If it’s in her underwear, who’s going to check?"

"Let Travis do it. He’s tall and brave—ha!"

The open mockery was humiliating. No one stood by me—not a single person.

Only Julian stood up, furious. He usually hated talking, but that day, he defended me in front of everyone.

"Have you said enough? Where’s your proof?"

"Pretty bold for people who live off their parents to mock someone supporting herself. Aren’t you ashamed?"

"Anyone says another word, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Ever heard of defamation?"

Everyone was shocked—no one expected Julian to say so much. They shut up, scared of his family’s wealth and lawyers.

That day, my secret crush on him grew even deeper.

After class, I pulled him aside and confessed my feelings.

I still remember how he looked, his shadow stretched long by the hallway light. He was thin, his handsome face hidden in the glow. When he heard my confession, he clenched his pale hands behind his back, struggling to control himself. The few seconds felt like an eternity.

My heart pounded, waiting for his reply. Finally, he just looked away, almost cruelly.

"Autumn, I don’t like you. We’re just friends."

Friends… how could we be just friends? My heart shattered.

After that, Julian started avoiding me—no more walking to school together, no more talking between classes. I was crushed.

But then he dropped out. I didn’t understand—weren’t we still friends? Why leave without a word? Was my confession really that unbearable?

I tried to find him, but realized I didn’t even have his contact info, or his address. The only person I could reach was his therapist.

I asked her where he was, if she was hiding something. I didn’t believe he’d just leave.

Dr. Porter spoke gently, "Autumn, I’m sorry. I hope you understand—I can’t reveal a patient’s details. That’s my professional ethics. As for Julian, it’s his choice. I respect that. But I hope you’ll stay by his side, even as a friend. He needs you."

"If he needed me, why leave? Why drop out? Even as friends, that’s not right. Was my confession that hard for him?"

I started crying, unable to stop. He had no idea—coming from a family like mine, orphaned young, I was always insecure and sensitive. Saying ‘I like you’ probably took all the courage I’d built up in 18 years.

But for those three words, he left school. He was so unfair. I didn’t like that Julian.

Later, in anger, I tore up the yearbook page he’d left just for me: ‘Autumn Carter, happy graduation. Wish you get into your dream college, and always be happy.’

In my past life, that’s how we drifted apart.

Seeing Dr. Porter again now felt surreal. She looked surprised. "You are…?"

"I’m Julian’s classmate," I introduced myself.

"Wow, Julian actually let a classmate come over? I’ve known him since he was ten, and this is the first time he’s brought someone home. You must be his best friend!"

She actually said ‘best.’ I nodded. She asked where Julian was—I told her he was painting in his room.

She pulled me outside, sitting with me under the old swing, her tone sincere.

"Julian’s never had friends. Please spend time with him—he’s very lonely."

"I know."

I took the chance to ask about his family. This time, she didn’t dodge. Maybe she hoped more friends would help him heal.

That spring, under the blooming maple trees, I finally heard Julian’s story firsthand.

Dr. Porter said, "Julian has autism, but his parents loved him. With their care, he started to get better, even making friends—until he was seven. His dad was a successful businessman, his mom a talented painter with severe paranoia. When Julian was seven, his mom was painting in her studio. When her husband knocked, she lost control during a psychotic break and accidentally killed him. When she came to, she was devastated, hugging his bloody body, and in her grief, she took her own life too."

"It was a huge shock for Julian—he lost both parents in a day. He’s always worried he inherited his mom’s illness, that he’ll hurt someone he loves, even though he’s not sick. He’s so scared, he’s closed himself off, which doesn’t help his autism at all."

So that’s why he kept his distance in the past—afraid of hurting me.

I suddenly remembered the star card he gave the bus driver.

In my last life, I got into my dream finance program at Columbia and NYU, but it was expensive—way beyond what I could afford. When I was about to give up, Ms. Foster called me to the office, thrilled to tell me a generous donor had offered to sponsor my studies for seven years. The donor was anonymous—just a drawing of a star, exactly like Julian’s bus card.

"What do you want to do in the future?"

On the school track, Julian and I sat together. I grinned, "I want to study finance."

My eyes sparkled. "You don’t know—I’m pretty materialistic. Maybe because I grew up poor. I want to make lots of money. But…," I trailed off, hope dimming. He noticed and asked quietly, "What’s wrong?"

I sighed, "That major is expensive. I’ll have to start working now to save up. But enough about me. What about you?"

He stared straight ahead, hands on his knees. "Paint. I want to keep painting."

"Yeah!" I nodded. "I’m your number one fan!"

He blushed, looking down. Turns out, he remembered everything I’d ever said.

I was hopeless—I started tearing up again. Stupid Julian.

Dr. Porter didn’t come in, just left.

"Who were you talking to?"

Julian was already in the living room.

"Your therapist friend," I answered.

He seemed wary. "What did she tell you?"

"About what you’ve been through," I said honestly.

"I don’t need help." He was defensive.

"I know."

I hurried to catch up, stepping in front of him and looking up into his eyes.

"I just want you to know, no matter what happens, you’re not alone. I’ll always be here for you."

I patted my shoulder, smiling. "Here—lean on me. Julian, you’re not alone in this world."

He hadn’t expected that. His intense gaze fell on my face, lips twitching, eyes reddening. All the emotions he’d bottled up suddenly burst out.

His trembling finger pointed to his heart. His voice choked. "But what if it hurts here?"

"That means it’s sick."

"Can it be cured?"

He was in so much pain.

I hugged him. "Of course. It’s like a cold—it’ll get better. Everything will get better."

He cried on my shoulder.

Soon, dinner was ready—his favorite tomato meatball soup and mashed potatoes. He ate happily, praising me.

"Autumn, your cooking is amazing."

"Right? I’ve been cooking for myself since I was little—my parents died young."

I added more potatoes to his bowl. He paused, asking, "Isn’t it hard?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

He pulled out a debit card. "For you. The PIN is 920856."

Julian was direct—if you needed money, he just gave it to you. No beating around the bush.

"No need," I smiled. I remembered in my last life, when he saw me struggling at the coffee shop, he first tried giving me money directly. Later, realizing that hurt my pride, he secretly bought tons of coffee drinks, thinking if business was good, I could go home early.

So this time, I warned him in advance. "Don’t send people to buy coffee from my shop. The boss is ruthless—it’ll just make me work harder, not less."

He grunted, not sure if he understood.

On the bus, we sat together. I was about to get off for my shift. "Text me when you get home," I told him.

He nodded, tugging my sleeve, a little reluctant. "Isn’t it too much for you—classes and part-time work?"

He really cared.

"No." I brushed my hair out of my face. "I just get a little scared walking home alone at night—it’s dark and empty. But I’ll get used to it."

At my stop, I waved goodbye. He looked a little unhappy, lips tight, but still smiled and waved back.

Julian started relying on me more, even acting spoiled in class. When I was busy calculating living expenses, he’d lie on the desk, feigning illness.

"Autumn, I feel a little sick."

"Where?" I was worried.

He softened his voice, taking my hand to his forehead. "Do I have a fever?"

"No, you don’t."

I checked again, palm to his head. "Really, no fever."

He lay there, puppy-eyed. "What are the symptoms of a cold?"

I lay down too, looking him in the eye. "If you have a cold, your heart beats fast, sometimes you can’t breathe, your face gets hot and red."

He touched his chest, his handsome face turning visibly red. "That’s what I have."

I bit back a laugh. Dumb Julian. That’s not a cold—it’s a crush.