Then my fingers remained buried in my palms as I stared at the giant screen.
Every photograph felt like another hand reaching into my past and dragging it out for everyone to laugh at.
The whispers didn't stop. If anything, they were getting louder.
"She was really a factory worker."
"So that's where she came from."
"I heard she married Dawson to escape poverty."
"Look at the way she was treated."
"I can't believe she's acting president now."
I closed my eyes for a brief second and realized something.
I realized that weeks ago, those whispers would've broken me.
I would've cried, run away, or hidden somewhere until everyone forgot I existed.
But when I opened my eyes again, it dawned on me that running had never solved anything.
It had only permitted people to chase me.
Stefa
