55

He doesn’t even tell me the music is loud anymore. He just stands there and watches me dance before he scoops me up and fucks me. And it’s not fair that my favorite band is now associated with him. Whenever I hear my playlist, I think of Nate fucking me. Whenever I eat my ice cream or drink my milkshake, I think of him bringing them to me. He hasn’t only robbed my body and attacked my soul, but he’s also coming after my heart. My stupid vanilla heart that loses flavor every time he doesn’t kiss me. I try to pretend it doesn’t bother me and that I’m completely fine with just sex and companionship. It doesn’t matter, okay? I’m using him as much as he’s using me. Lie. You’re a damn liar, Gwen. I squash the voice and focus on Nate because he’s talking now, and holy shit, how can he sound even more authoritative than normal? Everyone’s attention is zoomed in on him and I’m definitely not the only one who’s hardly blinking. No one wants to miss a moment of his show—that’s what it feels like