That Remembered Me
The paper felt heavier than it should have. I stared at the ink, the sharp, jagged loops of the handwriting feeling like tiny needles against my retinas.
That was mean.
It wasn't just the words; it was the casualness of the cruelty, the way someone could sit down and decide to be a villain in the middle of a mundane afternoon. Heat crawled up my neck, a slow, stinging burn. I didn't reread it. I didn't want those words to take root in my head. I crumpled the page, my knuckles turning white, and flung it. It hit the wall with a dull thwack and tumbled to the floor—a discarded, wrinkled husk of a threat.
I turned and walked toward my room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
