I feel and feel and feel until it becomes a living thing that presses into my very skin from the inside out. It used to happen every time I saw her. Every time she’d walk down the street, the knife would twist and I’d have to bite down on my teeth to stave off the pain. Or every time she climbed up to her roof to watch the moon, or when I saw her around the school, bobbing her head to the music or smiling at something she’d read. Every time I heard her voice, her laughter… I hated it. I hated the effect she had on me
