She always knew that she couldn't force me to tell something I want to keep for myself. I admire this attitude of my best friend so much.
"Please tell me if there's something you might need help with."
"Sure." I started the engine again and held on to my steering wheel. We reached the house with a lonely vibe. I don't really feel like talking to Sheira. I am sure she understood my silence this time. She went to the bathroom instead. She just did her half-bath while I sat on my bed.
I looked at the cabinet where I hid my mother's diary. I also don't have the mood to read her diary, either. I feel like I am going to be more miserable if I read the details of her previous writings.
Why is everything kind of messed up? Sometimes I want to ask why I belong to those unfortunate individuals w
