In my room there is a writing desk in a corner. I can sit there, uninterrupted, for hours writing epic tales. I was there now. But I wasn’t writing a story.

The pen spilt ink-blood onto the page as I furiously scribed the words to the angriest and yet hardest letter I have ever written.

Dear Connor,
I lied. It was you.
I hate the way you made me feel in front of my friends! Like a cheap whore! I hate the way you hang on me, never a moment of peace! I hate the way you brag to your friends about things we’ve never done and I have to smile like I agree with you! I hate that you oogle every waitress, cheerleader, and girl on the street, right in front of me, like I don’t matter.
I’m through with you! I deserve better!
I’ve thought about it, and it’s over!
Jada

I sat there as a single angry tear burned down my cheek. It was emotional, writing the things I didn’t have the guts to say to say to his baby face and blue eyes.

I folded the letter, then placed it in my backpack. I wiped the tears, and went to bed.