Miguel.
"I brought you icecream."
I grab the dish of icecream from him and slam the door in his face.
I lock the door so that he does not enter and strut to the kitchen where I store the icecream in the fridge.
I'm going to have the icecream later as I "bingeread" a couple of novels in the comfort of my bed.
Apart from sleep, books really turn out to be the perfect escapism. They make me forget this harsh reality of mine.
"Mabby! Mabby!" Miguel knocks harder. "Open up! Can we talk? Please?"
I'd be damned if I open the door for him.
He wrote what he wrote. I felt what I felt. It is what it is.
I don't even need an explanation from him. Honestly, what's the point? What's the point if it can't erase how hurt I felt when I read it? What's the point if it can't change the way pe
