It would be a mistake to explain myself to you. The first (and last) time I tried, a girl replied. I had never been more scared to read a text. I had to go outside for air. Good thing I did. I cried about it for the shortest time. In the two minutes it took me to collect myself, the stable part of me had shattered.
I still hate that girl. What a bitch.
YOU ARE READING
Insomniac
Short StoryTo the ones up because of the late nights when the sleep keeps its distance and the memories roll in like waves. We are the insomniacs.
