The Writer Refuses To Talk

“Is there something wrong?”

By Jove, where did the sarcastic, cold tone I had grown to listening to go? What’s this? Do I hear sympathy?

“It’s none of your business,” I replied, now hugging my journal to my chest. The last thing I wanted was anyone knowing my thoughts.

One of the biggest problems mama ever had with me was getting me to talk. I’d never tell her about my problems at school, or if I even hurt myself with a simple scrape.

I hate thinking about people worrying over me. I can take care of myself, but as my mother had so kindly branded into my memory, that sometimes doesn’t apply to all situations.

Part of me wanted to blurt everything to a total stranger.

The other part wanted to clam up, as always, and continue writing.

It’s hard to listen to both at the same time.

“It’s just…family problems,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, trying to look indifferent. “No biggie.”

Since he woke up, that was the first time Raine had been completely silent in my presence.

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