three - better

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"Be yourself- not your idea of what you think somebody else's idea of yourself should be." -Henry David Thoreau

The winters are fading away ever so slowly, which is a bit annoying. It's hot as my mother's anger at day time and cold as my father's heart at night. The sun makes an appearance for a day while the next whole week will be raining as if the city was planning to turn into a sea.

Winter is not my kind of mood. The weather makes me lazy and sleepy while my heart is forcing me to go out and get some fresh air, like now. It rained the whole night yesterday, and as the morning came it turned into drizzling. The kind of weather when you'll prepare a nice cup of tea or anything warm and sit beside your window with a phone in hand. That is exactly what I was enjoying until my mother came bursting into my room and gasped, making me jump and the hot liquid falling on to my arm and stomach. I yelp in pain, standing up from the couch only to drop the cup and managed to catch my phone.

My skin on the hand was irritating so was the small part on my stomach, the now hot, soaked shirt pressed to my skin adding to the pain. I shake my hand and grab a hold of the shirt by the other hand to pull it off my skin. My mother sighs heavily and walks in my direction, all dressed nicely for some reason.

"You're turning 20 and instead of being responsible, I see you getting careless day by day, Indiana." She scolds, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the mess. This is the new mocking line she started to use just after a week I had turned 19. And there are still 2 or more weeks till I turn 20 and she makes turning 20 depressing. My hand still irritates, so does my stomach. I blow at my hand, shaking and squeaking at the same time.

"Enough of this," She exclaims and I pause, looking at her. She really thinks I'm doing this for her show. "Why aren't you ready yet?"

I give her a confused look before walking off to get a new shirt. Pulling out my yellow t-shirt, I walk behind the panel screen to replace the wet one.

"We are leaving for the dinner." She informs with annoyance clear in her voice.

"The Styles' one?" I ask.

"Yes, now get ready."

"Mother, I already told you I'm not going." She stops walking after my words and sighs.

"We are not having this conversation again." She looks at me over her shoulder. "Get changed, we're waiting down stairs."

She waits for my answer, "Alright."

With that, she leaves me alone; making me glad she did not pick any dress for me. I wanted to pick one for myself this time.

The impression that Harry left me with, I doubt that anyone would be joyed or even satisfied with the chance of meeting him again. I'm not least thrilled, nor am I looking forward to it. They called the whole family for dinner and according to my mother it would be disrespectful if I do not visit, and she would not hear anything less than that.

I slide my closet door to the left revealing my dresses that hung neatly on the metallic rod. I push my way through the dresses, paranoid at how I cannot find the one I wanted.

You can do much better

That is what got me in the desire of wearing something...better. I wanted to push him back, actually, out of my mind and tell myself that there is nothing wrong with being myself. But there was something inside me that wanted to look good, to show him that I can do way better than whatever he thinks is better. He really had to make no special efforts to climb on my nerves.

After shuffling multiple times, I decide on a royal blue dress. It had short sleeves, adorned with a lace pattern. I hurriedly dress into it after realizing how much time I took only in picking one, simple dress. It came above my knee, just enough to reveal, tight enough to show that I only looked fat on the previous dress I wore. I felt out of place by thinking such things.

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