Your mother left you before her father left her.
For some reason you’ve always felt a nagging sense of scorn about it—a completely illogical fault but, once found, one you could at least hold on to regardless of circumstances.
It’s morning, and you’re lying in bed and resolutely putting off getting ready.
You can hear the shower running through the thin walls of your room and even though you aren’t fifteen any more the knowledge of who is in there makes you flush hot and kick off your blankets.
Goosebumps rise all along your skin, down your arms and across your chest and down your legs.
It still doesn’t bring you relief and a chill runs up your spine; your blush is spreading splotchy down your chest and you hate it,
that she has such an effect on you but no matter how hard you try you can’t seem to get to her.
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