The Consumed Series
I snap, and our eyes meet in the reflection.
"Oh. Sorry."
Huffing, I close the sun visor and wedge my elbow against the door and window, then rest my cheek on my fist. I hate being painted so weakly. She doesn't understand what it's like to be in a relationship with someone whose words are like talons, as sharp as razors and as strong as iron. She's never been in a relationship with someone who's made her feel like there was no way out, that it's easier to suffer, to paint over their narcissism, their shortcomings, than it is to leave. It's confusing to hate someone so deeply, but feel as though you'll crash and burn if they leave.