Mask Off.

Mask Off.

Reads 29
Votes 4
Parts 2

Ongoing10m

Last published Mon, Sep 4, 2017

amore bacio wattapad

Ma perché essere se stessi è così complicato? Perché nessuno ti accetta per quello che sei? Non riesco più a essere me stessa. Perché appena provo ad essere me stessa le persone se ne vanno . Perché nessuno mi vuole per quello che sono? Non so più di chi posso fidarmi ormai . Anzi non mi fido più di nessuno . Mi fidavo solo di una persona... ma se n'è andata come Immaginavo .. Se n'è andata senza nemmeno voltarsi indietro senza nemmeno un minimo di comprensione . Se n'è andata via ,via da me. qualcosa dentro di me da lì in poi è cambiata. Fino a..

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Let me tell you my story, the one about how I died. Don't worry, though. I came back. They say when someone shares their story, they're sharing their burden. Seeking someone to help carry the weight that bends their shoulders, hoping their troubles will float away like helium balloons into the endless sky. Your silence becomes their sanctuary, a vacuum they fill with dust-covered memories. If you speak, do it gently - a nod, a smile, the ghost of a touch on their shoulder. But my story? It's different. It carved its path because trust becomes a luxury I could no longer afford. How could it not, when the one person who swore to never betray me did exactly that? The one who promised never to hurt me, broke me. The one who vowed to stay, walked away. So tell me, why trust anyone else when the person I trusted the most killed me in every way but physical? Until they managed that too. They say the most dangerous predators are the ones who look like prey. I learned this truth through split knuckles and shattered promises, through blood on my tongue and threats whispered against skin. Through playing weak while gathering my strength in darkness. Now I watch him, this self-proclaimed hunter in his own game. He doesn't see he's just another piece being moved across someone else's board. The mafia's golden prince, they whisper. If only they knew what lurks beneath that polished veneer. What dances behind those eyes that mirror the shadows I know so well. But shadows? They're born from fire. And somewhere out there, someone's striking matches, leaving black roses on cooling ashes, drawing closer with every corpse that falls. They call him Pyro. And when that name drops in a room. Well, let's just say I'm not the only one with secrets worth killing for. Some demons wear designer suits. Some victims wear crowns. And some fires are worth burning for. Welcome to the game. Trust no one. Not even me.

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