It didn’t hurt. Everything my mother said—I had heard it before. It shouldn’t have hurt. And yet... it didn’t start hurting until I got home, in my room, all alone with my thoughts. I hated thinking. My subconscious hated me as much as I hated myself.
“Why can’t she just be happy for me?” I whispered aloud, biting my bottom lip to control the warm tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
I moved my hand to my face, wiping them away and staring at the small wet spot in silence.
I already knew this was going to happen, so why did it still hurt when it did?
I glanced at my phone lying next to me in bed and looked away quickly. I didn’t want to call her. She’d only try to manipulate me more if she saw how desperate I was. That was who she was. Manipulation was a skill she learned just so my
