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“Sure Niceyou, princess”

“It’s Monroe,” I shot back with the voice of a five-year-old Hello What was it about this boy that turned me into an immature child with no filters?

Nathan bent over to open up his paint can without saying another word, and I hurried back to the house Not once did I look back Not even when I reached the

I lasses of water before the weariness of my life—y to be anything other than apathetic

It was a heavy feeling and one I was used to, so I did what I always did when it hit I trudged upstairs, flopped onto ly of the little blue pills that were no longer mine to enjoy

I closed led into my pillow, and prayed for sleep