SOPHIE
The ladle thing shouldn't still be sitting in my chest three hours later, but it is.
I'm lying on my bed with my phone in my hand, staring at Nathan's text again even though I've basically memorized it at this point. *I'm not asking you to forgive me.* I keep waiting for the sentence to feel like a trick, like there's a punchline coming, but it just sits there being sincere, which is somehow worse.
I hate this. I hate that I'm doing math in my head about a boy who once told the entire cafeteria that my dad probably left because even he couldn't stand looking at me every day. I hate that today, when he asked Mrs. Chen three different times what she needed instead of guessing and making a mess, some small traitor part of my brain went *huh, that's kind of him* instead of *who cares
