Avengers Preferences and Imagines

16. Emotionally Hurt

This basically a rant in the form of a chapter. Oh well.
You aren't in a relationship yet for this pref
(Y/f/a/n = Your Favorite Avenger's Name)

It was stupid.

One minute you were perfectly fine.

Then the next you break down inside.

You stood behind the entrance to the bar where the team was gathered on the couches, laughing and talking to each other at once.

They probably forgot about you. They always do.

You were likely an insecure, weak, and useless open book to them.

They call each other family.

You did too until you realized you weren't wanted.

They were too lost in each other; barely seemed to notice the girl who was trying so hard to fit in somewhere.

Just one place.

The girl who tried too hard in everything she did and got nowhere.

They didn't know you had to constantly change the sides of your pillow at night because they were too wet to rest your head on. It's not like you could hold back tears. You weren't good at that.

You longed to be with them.

Your nails scraped the paint on the threshold, trying to hold back from walking in. You wanted to say something.

But you didn't.

You've been an Avenger for two years, and being the fresh meat in a pack leaves you to your own devices for every moment you're there.

You were kind of used to being unwanted, but reliving the same situation in loops everyday tends to press into you, farther than you'd like it to.

You don't want to say it, but it seems like they only pretend to care for you. Something to keep you in, yet shut you out.

It is such a shame because you love them so much.

You wish you didn't care but you really do.

You wish you had something to talk about but you didn't.

You wish you wouldn't throw your trust around but you did.

And the worst part was, you didn't know how to shut them out without shutting them in with you.

—

You skipped dinner tonight, and sat on your bed, reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

The novel never ceased to stampede you with an immense amount of feels.

I remember when I was just about to say goodbye to my aunt Helen, I started crying. It was a real kind of crying, too. Not the panicky type, which I do a lot. And I made Aunt Helen a promise to only cry about important things because I would hate to think that crying as much as I do would make crying for Aunt Helen less than it is.

You read over that paragraph three times, as if it was written for you. Which it might as well have been.

You reached for the file from last month's mission on your nightstand and a pen from your nightstand's drawer and rewrote the quote at the top of the manila folder.

You put it aside and went back to your book, occasionally glimpsing at the collection of words inked out to mean something more to you, then the author had thought he had let on.