𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐤

Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy.

Other days, I convince myself my daydreaming is normal. Everyone does it—staring out a window, imagining a different life. A softer one.

One where the people who ignore you actually care.

Where your crush finally notices you.

Where home doesn't feel like walking on glass.

Doctors call it unhealthy. They slap labels on it—maladaptive daydreaming, anxious attachment, whatever helps them sleep at night. I don't care.

The people I created in my head act right.

Unlike the ones in real life.

The car jolts over a speed bump, snapping me back into reality. Raindrops race down the window, and I silently bet on which one will reach the bottom first.

"You nervous for your first day?"

I chuckle. "I wasn't nervous when I moved halfway across the world to New York. But my first day of high school? That's terrifying."

He glances at me, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and pity. "You'll be fine."

I don't respond. If I stay quiet long enough, maybe this excruciating car ride will end sooner.

I couldn't stand him. He wasn't saying anything to make me angry, but years of abuse have trained every fiber in my body to react anyway.

It's not my fault, I deliberately mumble to myself — something I cling to like a lifeline.

I didn't make myself hate him.

He made me hate him.