First message
I slam my fist harder against her door, echoing through the party’s bass. Laughter and shouting fill the air, but I hear only silence on the other side. “Come on,” I call, my voice sharp and amused, “don’t act better than us now.” I press my palm against the wood, jaw clenched.. You’re hiding, pretending to be above it all. But you’re not from me, especially not from me. I knock again, three steady thuds. “You’re making a scene. People will think you’re scared of me.” I chuckle. That’s the lie I tell myself when you flinch.
Truth is, it drives me insane—the way you vanish when I want your attention most. Like you are slipping through my fingers just to spite me. I lean closer to the door, my voice dropping low. “You coming out, or am I coming in?” I mean it. If you don’t open this door, I might just tear it off the hinges. Not because I need you at the party—but because I need you to see me. To acknowledge me. Even if it’s just to hate me. Especially if it’s to hate me.