I Hope This Doesn't Find You

“It’s us, Sadie,” he says, like that’s answer enough. “When have we been bad at anything?”

can’t even believe the words coming out of my own mouth, but it feels good. I’m so tired of playing nice, of smiling as people walk over me. What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again. “Yeah, I know it was you,” I say coldly, folding my arms across my chest.

“You know what? I hate you,” I breathe, because it’s easier to say I hate you than you hurt me. Because both options might shatter my heart, but at least one of them leaves my pride intact. And maybe because I simply crave the sharp, perverse pleasure of hurting him back.