I hear footsteps coming my way and I am scared someone might see me crying. Not that people are unaware of my frequent breakdowns. I am just afraid they would come and ask me what's wrong.
I don't look up; I can feel someone's eyes on me and I can hear the person's faint breaths. Through the corner of my right eye, I can see an old pair of navy blue sports shoes. After lingering around for more than a minute, the person gives up and walks away.
I say a silent thank you to him.
I cry so hard that at the end of the hour, I am left with a sore throat.
What people say is, crying does makes us feel better. I am a living example of that.
But the better feeling is only temporary.
I pull myself up to the washroom. The figure who stares at me from the mirror looks horrible, her face is covered with tear stains and her face is almost drained off blood. I can't believe I look so pale.
I am hurriedly washing my face as the bell rings. I know children would now come running through the doors anytime.
I am wiping my face with the towel as the first girls come through. There is a girl from my English class and she glares at me like I am some kind of a creepy ghost. She whispers something to her friends and the group breaks into fits of laughter.
After all this, if there is anything I truly know, then it's this – I don't care anymore.
I am too broken to care.
A/N
Yay yay yaaayyy! Guess what we hit? A century of reads. Let me do my happy dance. JUN JUN JUN.
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Lina.