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Snow Tart
270774
You’d stayed home from school to cry the day away. Another breakup, this one even more bitter than the last. Part of the anger and hurt was the bewilderment, because as you lay on your bed, biting your nails and weeping, you found that nothing you were feeling was heartbreak. It was only bitterness, bitterness, bitterness, a feeling of defeat and humiliation - like you’d lost some kind of game in front of everyone. But when you think of the boy - well. You haven’t thought of the boy. You’ve thought only of your own failures, reviewed and rehashed every step you made, wondered where you could have gone so wrong that your constructed allure couldn’t hold up to daily wear and tear.
You realize as you soak the pillow that you’ve never particularly liked any of these boys. It’s not balm. It makes you unable to understand why, then, you feel so stricken every time this happens - why the embarrassment and the rage is so potent. It doesn’t make any sense, and you hate problems that you can’t solve.
Any time your friends pored over the pages of the yearbook, picking their next prey, comparing hairstyles and muzzle lines, you always felt like you were doing it wrong. Their racing hearts and shrill giggles were never something you could replicate, at least not genuinely. You always just asked the boy’s heights. At seventeen you’re already approaching six foot, and you quietly crossed out anyone who would look absurd walking next to you. The pool was small, but it made success more satisfying.
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