eighteen. a young simba. 🦁

instagram(s): @edenrosea
                            @edenthewriter

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"What's this?" They asked.

A faint smile lingered on her lips, she could see them, they all leant forward a bit, mouth slightly ajar, wide doe eyes staring at her with mild curiosity. 

"These? These are all my daydreams, my nightmares, and my memories, that I've pieced together into a heap of word documents."

If they didn't before, they looked even more intrigued now.

"Can we see them?"

She thought about what was on those documents, she didn't want to hurt them, scar them, she wanted them to feel happy and she didn't know what the odds were. But she knew they were curious and even if she said no; they would find away.

She closed her eyes pushing her stories towards them, "I'm sorry."

•

(it may be a character, it may be my feelings. guess we'll never know eh?)

It's not like they care. It's not like they know who I am, it pisses me off that they couldn't give a toss. But maybe - just maybe I like it. Maybe I like the feeling of people not caring, not asking questions, not expecting. It's a lonely life, pretending to be someone who is loud and exciting, it's a façade that had grown into my skin and sometimes it doesn't feel fake; until the questions come. Then I have to put on my best smile and regurgitate lies that even I've accustomed to believe. But that's just me isn't it? The one stuck in the middle. The one they don't really know. The one that - honestly - gave up a long time ago.

•

"All that is gold, does not glister." - William Shakespeare