don't question that I forgot about this book for nine days
I hate them. I hate thinking about them. I associate them with being abandoned, being hated, and being forgotten about. And yet I have to hear their voice speaking to me. I have to see their eyes looking at me. I have to see that they want to talk to me.
I hate being the one who has to start the conversation, I hate that I'm the one who had to *make them* remember me. I hate that I sat down next to them and they didn't notice me. I hate that I had to ask them if they remembered me, I hate that I had to say something about them for them to know who I was. I hate that they kept saying they'd unblock me and they never did.
And yet I need them for some reason. I can't think about them in a good way, and I need to know if they want to talk to me, and thus I have to think about them. Perhaps now you realize why I want them dead? Why I want to be the last person they talk to? Why I want my face to be the last they see before they die?
YOU ARE READING
A diary? Something about me?
RandomAll the stories I write. All the fantasies I come up with. And you'd read something about me? I'm honored.
