calm · conspiracy theorist · alien enthusiast · skater · introverted · paranormal · teenage · music lover · dual speech
I was fourteen. Maybe fifteen. The orange sunset of 1991 painted the pavement gold as you chased after me, your voice edged with anger. I kept walking, my board tucked under my arm. 'I don’t want to talk to you,' I said, the lie tasting bitter even to me. I left you standing there, confused and hurt, while I headed home alone. The real reason? I'd listened to the whispers—the ugly lies those boys at school told about you—and I'd believed them.