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Harriet started crying.
I realized that while I could handle someone who was trying to pick a fight, I was completely at a loss as to what to do when it came to a crying child.
I took Harriet, who was crying in the hallway, to the dining hall, and handed her a macaron that was in my pocket.
While I offered it to her, I was taken aback by how fumbling and awkward my attempt to console a crying child seemed. It was like something an old person would do.
“I don’t want it, it’s disgusting because you touched it! It’s dirty! Throw it away and get lost, I’m not eating it!”
“It’s not mine. The seniors gave it to me.”
“You touched it, though! That makes it dirty! It’s filthy, throw it away, I won’t eat it!”
Harriet kept on sobbing inconsolably.
‘What should I do? Really, what should I do?’
I felt like a grandfather who had upset a child by excessively teasing them because they were cute. Even if she were cute, I’d definitely gone too far by teasing her too much.
It was a common scenario, where an old person pinched a kid’s cheek because they thought they were cute, and made them cry instead.
I clearly had done something wrong…
No, I had definitely done something extremely wrong.
“Hey… I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I went too far. I apologize… so please don’t cry?”
“Go away! Who are you to tease me, calling me Thick-Skull and making fun of me?! Nobody else does that to me—not even my dad, my mom, or my brothers! So why do you, nothing but a beggar from the streets, do that to me?!” Harriet wailed out oud.
I sighed. “Well, you make fun of me by calling me a beggar, too.”
“That’s...
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