He was candies and sweets, cupcakes and muffins, cookies and red velvets and all I’ve that I never knew I wanted. All that I ever fancied, all that I used to pass by, in every passing pastry shop window. He turned into my childish addiction, and he loved the attention I so carelessly, so outwardly gave him. He was sugar rush incarnate – there to console me for my every small downfall, and there to cheer me for my every big success. I loved looking at the mirror at the end of every day spent with him, singing as I spotted bits of chocolate left in my teeth as I gave myself a toothy grin. Oh, how I used to shine as bright as the sunflowers of May. He was every acoustic version I have ever had the privilege of hearing, every drunken sleepy smirk ever looked at my way. And then… then, he was just… gone. It’s funny, really, how reality has a way of slapping you only when things have started to get worse. I learned then that an addiction, however childish, was an addiction nonetheless, and that his consolation consisted of empty words of encouragement, copy-pasted from the first page of Google search of “how to flirt with a friend”. I started hating my image in front of the mirror, for every inch of my chubby cheeks reminded me of how I once tasted something so heavenly, only to be smacked right down to hell. Oh, how these sunflowers of May wilted when winter came. He became every indie song I recommended to him that he never even listened to, and every blank stare he gave after he left. He was sweets and candies, muffins and cupcakes, cookies and red velvets, and all that I should have known not to eat. In the end, he was just as rotten as the tooth decay that he purposely gave.