1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I feel a warm hand touch my face. “You know what she’s about just as
much as him,” Masen says. “This doesn’t surprise you.”
I shake my head, blinking through the thick tears I can’t stop from
welling up. “No,” I barely whisper, staring at the photo.
No, I’m not surprised. I just feel like shit for some reason. The whole
time I thought I was winning. I thought I was on top. But behind my back,
the people I thought I could handle were handling me. They think I’m
stupid, after all. Someone they find easy to humiliate.
Just like before.
I knew Trey wasn’t holding out for me, so I didn’t care. But I did think I
had Lyla figured out. I thought I had her respect.
What fun she must have had, standing next me and knowing that she’s
getting a piece of someone she thinks I might want.
Fat tears spill over, and I feel a weight on my shoulders. It’s not Trey.
It’s not Lyla. It’s me. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.
“You know, I turned into this,” I tell him, my voice cracking and an
ache settling behind my eyes, “because I was a kid and I thought there was
something more. I traded friends I didn’t think were good enough for
friends who really aren’t good enough.”
I blink long and hard, my wet lashes falling against my cheek. “Even
Misha gave up on me.”
Masen cups my face gently. “I’m sure Misha has a reason,” he says
sadly. “Because there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“There’s so much wrong with me.” A sob shakes my chest, and I cry
harder. “I don’t have any friends, Masen.”
I don’t. Not really. I can understand people at school. I got what I
deserved. I chose shallow, I acted shallow, and I got nothing that would last.