*TRIGGER WARNING*
This book contains triggering elements such as suicide.
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This is the story of a girl. A girl who loved a boy but the boy would never know how broken she really was. She was broken in more ways than one, but she never told. She never told him, or anyone else. She would never tell.
"Imogen?" My eyes snap up at the sound of his voice. But when I look up, it's not him. And we're not sitting in my room, on the floor. I'm at my friend Quentin's house. I smile at Quentin, who seems to be my only friend. "You okay?" He asks.
"Never Better," I replied. The lie comes so easy now.
"You just looked kinda...sad," His voice falters as he says the word sad. Quentin never liked to talk about feelings. His or anyone else's. I put my pencil down and close my sketchbook. My eyes lock with his-but only for a second before I look back at the floor.
"I'm fine," My voices barely raises above a whisper. His eyes dart down to my sketchbook then back up at my face.
"What did you draw?" He asks. I don't know why he does, I never tell him.
"Nothing," I never tell him. If I showed him, he would know. He can't know. It's been forty-one days. That's long enough. I should be over it. But I'm not. And I remember it all too well.
