“Maybe I’m always pretending to hate you,” she said eventually, and I stilled as she reached out and took my hand. She looked up at me from beneath lashes which sparkled with the colours of the rainbow and my heart pounded at the impossibility of that suggestion. Because whether I wanted to admit it or not, the idea that she might not hate me appealed to me in a desperate kind of way. “Or maybe I’m not,” she added, snuffing out that little ray of hope just as quickly as she’d offered it.
