Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 50770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Had you asked what the movie was about I might have just had to make it up. First off, he’s too hot, like literally, second, he kept rubbing my shoulder, hand, kissing my neck, but not in an aggressive way, basically he’s perfect and I don’t deserve him.
I wanted to tell him, actually I almost told him a million times last night, but how do you even begin that conversation? My own sister despises me because of my illness, my family treats me like I’m going to die any minute when everything is under control—don’t even get me started on when I’m struggling.
I’m glass.
Officially glass.
I just want to be steel.
Is that so hard to ask for?
The universe probably laughs every time I say that because there is no chance in hell I will ever be that, even though it’s what I wish for on a daily basis. My stomach kind of hurts, my anxiety is at an all-time high because of the secrets I’m keeping and I feel—funny, not like myself, which means I might be having an episode which again terrifies me. I don’t know him well enough to actually expose him to all of this.
And it’s a lot, I know it’s a lot, I get it, trust me, I deal with it constantly, but the real shit part is that even my own parents really don’t get it, they work, they check in, they travel constantly, and then when they come home and see if I’ve had an episode you’d think that I had leprosy.
One time I walked in to hear Sophie talking to my parents, it’s something I’ll never forget.
“What if I catch it? We don’t know, it could be something else. I don’t want to die! What if the diagnosis is wrong, and she’s contagious? Not even that, but you guys spend so much time just worrying about her and working, I’m left here, maybe it would be easier, right? Easier to get sick.”
She yelled the last part.
I kept waiting by the kitchen, mouth dry, a clump of hair in my hand that I was crying over, pain everywhere, fear that I’d need a transplant, fear that I was somehow alienating everyone in my world because when they asked how I was doing all I wanted to say was, welp, not great, see exhibit A! But when you’re sick you’re not allowed it, I mean maybe once or twice, but after a while even your own family gets tired of talking about it, so you suppress, you try to get better and you tell them everything is fine when you’re dizzy, nauseated, when you puke up dinner, when your muscles ache, you force a smile because how dare you be sick and fucking show me.
It’s the fear.
I believe my last boyfriend said I was baggage and damaged and that I was making everything up even when my hair was falling out in my own hands, then he told his dad who then sat me down and told me that sometimes we manifest things.
I got a little pat on my knee, and that was it. We broke up the next day and I almost ran to the store to build a voodoo doll to curse his entire family—especially after doctors did, in fact, diagnose me correctly.
Ugh, people suck, and the worst part is that no matter how much they “love” or “care” they don’t get chronic illness, at least not in the way that makes sense. I could literally give my entire diagnosis, write a report, win a Nobel and I swear people would still look at me, blink, and go, well why don’t you just eat healthy and rest more, take your medicine, then manifest good thoughts?
The amount of times I’ve been told to just do better or get better is insulting—especially from my own twin, who’s convinced I’m “sick” to get more attention.
It steals every piece of joy and it steals the rest that I get in between those moments where I’m able to actually breath. I always heard or grew up hearing that twins could sense each other and that the bond they had was tighter than anything, but all she’s ever done well is sabotage.
“Hey, you good?” Quinn frowns. “You look kind of pale?”
“Is that a question?”
“Well, if Cinderella’s carriage is currently turning back into a pumpkin, isn’t it the prince’s job to help save her from the mice?” His grin is infectious, but I can tell he’s worried, I’m not ready though, not ready to tell.
“Why are the mice bad again?” I laugh.
He smiles and pulls me into his arms across the couch. “They eat their young.”
“Right.” I nod in agreement. “So you just don’t want me to get… bit?”
His teeth cause goosebumps as they scrape down my neck before he presses a kiss to my collarbone. Is it horrible to beg him to bite me? “Maybe it’s jealousy.”