1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I scream, slamming my hands down on the floor and curling my fingers
into the carpet.
I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t make a fool
out of me and play with me like that.
Shooting up, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and glare at him
on the screen. He finishes the final note, long and languorous, into the
microphone, and from the distance in the crowd, I can see him dip his head
as if still lost in the song after it’s over. People cheer, the last chords of the
guitar ringing out, and I hear a couple girls call out for him.
Calling for Misha.
Everything is shaking, and the room is spinning as my mind races.
Masen. Mysterious, quiet Masen who no one knows anything about and
who came out of nowhere. The guy who knew I’d loved Twilight, where I
lived, and exactly what to get out of my backpack when I had my asthma
attack without me telling him.
Oh, my God, how did I not know? I close my eyes, angry tears
streaming down my face.
Misha, my best friend who got me into bed and fucked me with a lie.
You have a friend, he’d said earlier.
“No,” I whisper to myself, rage building as I slam my laptop closed and
leave the room to get my sister’s car keys.
I have no friends.