✓ PLOT TWIST| JAKE

11- The Hate and the daddy issues

It was the last class of the day and I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it.

I had started my period and the pain from the cramps was getting worse with each passing hour. I didn’t have my medicine with me because I wasn't supposed to need it for another week, but it showed up early. I squirmed in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing was working.

When the bell rang, my classmates rushed out of the room, but Hana stayed behind. “Hey, are you okay?” Hana, pne of my classmate asked- the one that I  try to ignore everytime. It was not like I don't want to talk to her, she actually seems a nice pretty person, but I just couldn't afford the judgment and pity in her eyes if we got to talk and she got to know about my speech disease.

I will not afford it.

I leaned my body forward before muttering in a small voice that I was okay.

...

Later that day, I responded to some comments and some messages I got from people after checking my notifications even responding to that one and only reader.

Do you think that your idol will be happy if he read this.

It was the message that he left for me to answer.

Regret started filling me and eating me up. And once regret has done its job, my love, move on and put those lessons to good use.

What if he was not happy?

My emotions turn - cold, fearful, anxious... I back away, flee or strike out at someone who loves me. In these moments I am least proud of who I am, my mind telling me that I failed somehow.

My father finds I curled up on the couch when he gets home, wrapped up in a blanket so thoroughly all he can see is my face.

If he couldn’t see my expression, he might’ve laughed at me. Instead, his heart stumbles in his chest at my impossibly tired and broken face. He knows these past couple weeks in school have been hard for me, but judging from my demeanor, I’ve hit the breaking point.

I slid my ghostly face over to him, giving him a quiet greeting before turning my attention back to the TV that he’s not even sure I was watching. He carefully slides his shoes off, walks silently into the living room and picks my legs up to he can sit on the couch next to I. I barely pay him any mind.

“What are you watching?” He asks after a moment.

There’s no reply from me for a few seconds. Then a quiet, “Just some love show,” emits from the bundle of blankets.

He closes his eyes slowly, worming his hands underneath the blanket to set them beside my legs. Again, I pay him no mind.

My father started to look at me with wonder and worry filling his eyes.  It was a long time since we had some bonding time together.

It’s then that I know he knows something is up. Rarely does he ever indulge me in the magic of his hands—only when he knows I'm wound up about something or I convince him very thoroughly does he spoil me.

He wonders how long it will take for me to speak up.

“dad?” I say quietly, still unmoving from my blanket burrito.

“Yes?”

Now a large huff escapes me, but it stutters halfway through, indicating I’ve attempting not to cry. “S-school really sucks.” Is all I manage to say through my trembling lips that he can’t see.

He sighs deeply through his nose, his hands still moving methodically along my legs. “I know sweetheart.” He knows that some days—most days its torture for I to watch him go to work every day while I’re still stuck in some classroom.

He knows it isn’t easy when he can kick back for the night while I retreat back to my room to hunch over my computer for a few more hours.

"Can I hug my daughter?"

He’s warm and solid and his scent is overwhelmingly comforting to me. It also helps that his hands spread across my back and start working into the muscles of it. Only when my body starts shaking ever so slightly does he pause his ministrations.

Through muffled sniffles and clenched fists I say, “I did terrible on another test and now I can’t s-stop thinking about it and I know I shouldn’t do w-well on it, but I can’t stop. And all I can think about is that I’m not good enough and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Why am I even doing this to myself?”

The words went rushed out of my mouth- I didn't know how, but whenever I feel stress overerwhleming my senses, all my words went rushed and fast.

He guides my head off his neck, holding it in his hands and forcing me to look at him. Seeing I like this, tears rolling down my cheeks over some damn test that he knows means a lot to I makes his heart break. He looks at I seriously, his deep brown eyes boring into I when he says,

Not when I put so much time and energy into something just to get knocked down. Continuing to hold my head in his hands, he smooths his thumbs across my cheeks, wiping some tears away.

"You are my smart daughter And I am so proud of I. I know it’s hard. I’ll tell I everyday that I’ve good enough if that’s what it takes. And as much as I don’t want to hear it, it’s just a test.”

A broken laugh escapes me at how sincere he is. He presses his lips to my forehead before letting I nestle up next to him again, my tears subsiding in the comfort and solace of his arms. “I know I’m being r-ridiculous-s” I mutter, knowing just how silly this is.

But it was just the last straw from the last few weeks of shoving as much information into my brain as possible every day. I spend almost every waking moment thinking about school and my writing and  it’s frustrating to feel like it’s all for nothing.

“Maybe just a little bit,” he chuckles, pressing another kiss to my temple, his hands moving on to rub my shoulders.

Allowing myself to let it go. It’s one test. It’s not the end of the world. And it certainly doesn’t define my worth.

“Can I be honest and say that I hate it when I don't say much time h-home."

..