“I thought you were more like your father.” Her words slam into me. Father is… well, he is a king. He’s cold and strict and very rarely impressed, even with his own sons. I suppose in some ways he’s made me to be like him, schooled me on how to act, what to feel, and more importantly, what not to feel. Thanks to him, I’ve crafted a jumble of different masks that I can slip on and off at will. I’m a mess. A mess of muffled emotions and well-built walls.
