“So,” Charlotte ran her fingers through her curly black hair, “You heard everything you needed to know, now leave.”
My heart lept from her words. I didn’t want to leave. I was afraid that once I left she’d begin tearing at her arm again. She was already shoving me out the door, “Wait! Don’t you want to hear my story? I can tell you about my life too!”
She gave me a pained expression for a split second before it disappeared and she coldly stated, “I don’t care about your life!”
Her comment left me so shocked that it gave her the upper hand and allowed her to get me out the door and slammed it behind me.

I stayed sitting on the ground in the apartment’s hallway feeling dumbfounded. Here was a girl who spilled her entire godawful past and drew insane pictures of me, yet will immediately turn around and practically slap me in the face.

It had to do with her father, I assured myself, she doesn’t hate you.

But wait, why was I caring whether or not she hated me?

Why am I caring so much?

Why me?